It had been another bad day for Hanley, who was not accustomed to being the man in the middle. He had been shielding Devereaux from the moment Devereaux had revealed the existence of a Soviet agent in Florida. He had lied to both Galloway and the National Security Adviser.
The Adviser had talked to Hanley two hours before. The Adviser had been informed by the CIA that one of the agents of R Section had remained in Florida after being ordered to withdraw from the Tunney matter. The Adviser had been further informed that the R Section agent — code named November — was now wanted in connection with a murder inquiry in Florida.
“You know our charter,” the Adviser had huffed on the phone. “We are not permitted to operate in the United States.”
Yes, Hanley agreed. And he lied again. He did not know where Devereaux was, except that he had been withdrawn from Florida. When the Adviser pressed him, Hanley said that Devereaux had been given a leave of absence.
So many lies to keep straight, Hanley had thought; for the first time in his life, he felt a certain oneness with a field agent. He knew what it was to be alone, to have to hold back information for his own survival. He still had not told the Adviser about Denisov; or about the false cables filed; or about the last, indelicate probe of Cardinal Ludovico by Devereaux.
Devereaux.
The agent had become a gambler in the past few hours as he moved around the country, always within a telephone’s distance of Hanley. He was bent on using all the frail, remaining resources of the Section in this last, desperate scheme. It might all come down around Hanley’s ears tonight — the Section, his government career. Both agent and control officer knew that disaster was waiting for them if they did not succeed.
Now, finally, as the clocks in Washington pushed toward midnight, he began to tell Galloway the truth.
It was too late for Galloway to countermand anything Hanley had done.
Galloway listened quietly, puffing on his pipe, seeming to make no judgment. In fact, in the past few months, Galloway himself had become more and more distant from the Section. He had privately acknowledged more than once that the Section was finished and would be written out of next year’s budget, absorbed by the CIA. Galloway was a team player and he had gone along with the Administration in this matter; after all, there was a strong hint that the Agency might be looking for a new Deputy Director for Plans and Operations in the next fiscal year.
When Hanley finished, the Old Man sat silently, puffing at his pipe and filling the cold room with sweet-smelling smoke.
“Well,” Galloway began at last. “I suppose the A.D. over at the Agency must be as happy as a pig in slops. This is like the old days for him. Getting involved in a real ‘strike’ operation with full authorization and an open contract. Have they got the girl yet?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Now, goddammit, Hanley. Stop lying to me. I wonder what the hell this is all about anyway? This journal business, sounds like someone’s been reading too many thrillers under the covers.” He lit the pipe again and threw the match on the desk top. Hanley made a face and removed it. “You shouldn’t have let Devereaux stay down in Florida—”
“Sir—”
“Dammit, Hanley, why didn’t you put me in the picture in the first place? Didn’t trust me?”
The embarrassed silence admitted it.
“You know, I’ve been worried about Devereaux for a long time. Even before that British business — involved the same fellow, this Denisov, didn’t it?”
“Devereaux is our best man,” Hanley said.
“Well, where is he now?”
Conscience rattled Hanley but he didn’t speak. “I don’t know. Not at this moment.” It was close to the truth.
“The Adviser is going to chew you a new asshole on this.” Galloway rarely indulged in salty talk; his naval career had been largely spent in the Pentagon, cultivating politenesses. But he felt the need to humiliate Hanley and he knew Hanley had a priggish distaste for scatological language.
“I don’t think the Adviser has been forthcoming,” Hanley said with mild stubbornness.
“Damn your eyes, Hanley. He explained it well enough to me. This all has to do with InterComBank, they worked as a laundry for our side in the fifties and the bank just didn’t want something to come up to upset the old applecart on this TransAsia matter. And I can tell you, the Administration is behind TransAsia one hundred and ten percent.”
“Why were people from InterComBank in Florida? Why did they attack Devereaux?”
“That’s what Devereaux says,” Galloway said.
Hanley was shocked. “Admiral. Devereaux is our man. Our man doesn’t lie to us.”
“You lied to me. You lied to the Adviser.”
Hanley did not speak.
“Goddammit, Hanley, this is a matter of national security as well as the survival of the Section.”
“The Section won’t survive, sir,” Hanley said.
“Who told you that?”
“You know that as well as I do. In the last few days it has become clear to me.” His voice was sad and calm.
“All right, let’s talk reality, you want to talk reality. R section is finished as of now. Next year, you had a choice of retiring or coming over to the Agency. You’re not so old, Hanley, you’ve got years left in the Agency. And a promotion in grade at Langley, if you played your cards right.”
“I had decided about that,” Hanley said quietly.
“You had? Is that right? You decided, did you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take retirement when the Section closes down.”
“Hanley.”
“It was all that was important,” Hanley said. “The Section. It was what counted with me.”
The Old Man smiled. Not for the first time, Galloway was amused by this dull little man with his open, flat eyes. A clerk. A goddam bureaucrat who probably curled up and read spy novels at night. Goddam little clerk. Everyone had a joke about Hanley. He kept his office so damned cold to save energy it could freeze a polar bear. He took lunch at the same old place, day after day, year after year, a goddam little greasy spoon down Fourteenth Street. The secretaries in the Section even joked about it — about Hanley’s lunch, which was always the same with a single straight-up martini and a well-done cheeseburger. Dull, predictable Hanley, pretending to play spy games.
Everyone knew Hanley.
The Old Man relit the pipe and puffed smoke into the room.
“Devereaux. You know where he is now. I know you do.”
Hanley said nothing.
“You let him go after her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Hanley said.
“Dammit to hell, Hanley, dammit to hell.”
“But I don’t know where he is.”
“All right, I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen. They’re going to get her, Hanley, they got every cop in the world right now up there in that trap in Green Bay. This is a criminal matter and if Devereaux wants to walk into it, he’s going to have to dangle out there in the wind alone.”
“A criminal matter,” Hanley agreed with an ambiguous tone.
Annoyance scratched at the Old Man again. “Devereaux went beyond all authorization this time and I don’t want your ass out there with him. It can’t be handled quietly now, I would have handled it quietly.”
“The big bang. At the end of the world. Or the Section.”
“Why on earth did you let us get involved? This man is a killer, Hanley. He’s out of control.”