“We thought you were leaving in—”
“Yes. I have new business,” Devereaux said.
“That will be all right,” the woman said. She was calm and methodical. She marked down a note and put it on the register. “Thank you, Mr. Dixon. Is everything going all right?”
“Fine,” he said.
He turned and crossed the lobby. He would do what had to be done in any case and to hell with Hanley.
He pushed the elevator button and it opened and he did not see the other passenger enter. He had been too lost in his own thoughts.
The doors closed.
The other passenger turned and looked up and spoke: “You.” Her voice was low, amazed, soft.
He saw her then and did not believe he saw her. He said nothing. He felt weakened, as though from a blow. He could not move.
“My God,” she said.
He did not speak.
And then she crossed the elevator to him and stood in front of him, next to him. He could smell her breath as he had smelled her breath in Florida on that morning they had met and made love. Her breath smelled sweet, without corruption; her breath smelled like a child’s milky breath. She stared at him for a long moment and he felt terrified of her, of her touch.
She touched his cheek.
She did not kiss him but only touched his cheek.
And voice was finally wrenched from him: “Rita,” he said.
Whom he had never expected to see again.
18
“Everything has been done badly.”
“I did my business. I don’t need to hear your—”
“Yes, Antonio. You will listen this time. Without cocaine. Without your girlfriends. You killed a woman in Helsinki.”
“That was a private matter.”
“You were under contract.”
“She had to be killed.”
The Bulgarian named Penev turned. They were standing in the rain in the town-hall square. Around them were great red buildings painted gray by the rain. Even the hippies who inhabited the square had fled to the porticoes and to the underground bars in the cellars along the side streets and in Kalvertstrasse.
“There is no private matter when you have a contract from us.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“No,” said the fat man. He made a face and his eyes glistened in the rainlight. “That is obvious.”
“You had a job in Dublin.”
“I don’t know that we can trust you for it.”
“I had to kill the whore.”
“Why?”
“She had been sleeping with an American. A businessman. I nearly mistook him for my hit. She said he was English. Then I was bothered because this Sims was talking to the businessman. Hell, he was an American. A businessman. I was afraid she would remember something when the police came. Besides, I had hurt her a little. Not too much. The Amsterdam whore never complained.”
“Why do you hurt women?”
“Because I want to. It’s no business of yours.”
“You become too dangerous.”
“What do you want? A boy scout?”
“Why did you kill her?”
“I didn’t want her to say anything to the police. In case they questioned her about Sims and about the man she thought was an Englishman.”
“What was his name?”
“Dixon. Or Nixon. Something like that. It wasn’t important.”
“Was this the man?”
The Bulgarian held a photograph in his hand and the rain fell on it and streaked it. Antonio looked, his hair matted wet by rain. “Yes. Who is he?”
“That is not important.”
“So he wasn’t a businessman.”
“In a way. You don’t want to know too much. My people are not happy. You caused them trouble.”
“I don’t see why.”
“But I do. That’s enough.”
“What about Dublin? Why can’t we get out of the rain?”
“Because I choose to meet here. Do you understand that?”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“I don’t have to. If I lifted a finger, if I farted, you would be blown to dust.”
“Sure. I’m terrified. See how I’m shaking.”
“Don’t go too far, Antonio.”
“I’m going back to Paris. You people are playing games.”
“Not until you complete the contract.”
Antonio was silent. He walked a perimeter around the stolid figure of the Bulgarian. “What do you want now?” He sounded tired but it was not from the killing. The killing had energized him. It was the endless talk from the Bulgarian, the vague threats. It tired him.
“One last figure and then we give you a rest.”
Antonio smiled. His dark face did not show mirth. “I have other contractors.”
“A man in Dublin. I told you. But the job you did in Helsinki was too complicated.”
“I understand your position,” Antonio said.
“Do you?”
“Who is the man?”
“Not important. But a professional.”
“How do you want it done?”
“This is important. It must be IRA.”
“Blow him up?”
“No. But make it IRA. Here is something.”
He handed him a card. On it was printed: DEATH FOR THE ENGLISH BASTARDS.
“This is childish. The IRA don’t give out cards when they kill someone.”
“You call the Irish Times after it is done. And you say this.”
“I don’t speak like the Irish.”
“It doesn’t matter. Newspapers are newspapers. The death will be real enough.”
“And I go home after this?”
“You go to Helsinki, Antonio. One last bit of business after this.”
“Always one last bit of business with you people.” The man called Antonio shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. It was damned cold in Helsinki.”
The Bulgarian said, “Not too much longer. Did you notice the days are longer?”
Antonio managed another smile that lit his face darkly. “You’re an optimist. Days are never longer. It’s always the same time. You sound like my father. Long days. Days are days, only the light times can vary. I was in Narvik once, on a job, the sun was up twenty-four hours a day. In June. But it was still the same day.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Antonio shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t use the knife. They use a gun.”
“That’s all right, too. I cut him open.”
“The man? The woman? In Helsinki.”
“The woman. I had a roll of plastic. She bled and bled. I flushed some of her in the toilet. What a mess.”
“You didn’t have to kill her. It made it a mess.”
“She was a mess, I can tell you.”
“The business, Antonio.” The Bulgarian pulled up his collar. “Stick to the business.”
19
Rita Macklin, her face white and her hands trembling, had gone with Devereaux to his room. She had sat on the chair by the built-in desk where the policeman named Kulak had interrogated him.
For a long time, they did not speak.
“I never thought I would see you again,” she said at last, almost sadly, as though it would have been better to have a memory of it than to see him now.
“No,” Devereaux said. He went to the window and looked down at the construction pit.
It was nearly three in the afternoon. He should be waiting across from the Alko store for the signal. He felt the press of time after feeling timeless for all those weeks in Helsinki. He was free now but he felt more a prisoner than he had felt during those weeks. He felt her presence in the room.
“Why are you here?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“The game,” she said.
He turned.
“The game,” she repeated. “It was always a game.”
“Not with you,” he said, gently. His voice was flat, uncolored like springwater, still, but it yearned to speak more plainly to her. He could not.