“Rita Catherine Macklin,” he continued. “Ostensibly an American journalist since 1975. Age thirty. Former employee of the Green Bay, Wisconsin, Press-Gazette, Universal Press Service, Washington, freelance for the Washington Post newspaper. During that period, she served as liaison to R Section, American, in the matter of Leo Tunney, Case File thirty-four dash nine-nine-eight-two dash seventy-nine C.”
“What was that?” the third director said.
Stolinaya handed him a précis of the case printed on a single sheet of paper. For a long moment, the third director read silently and then returned the paper to Stolinaya.
He continued the summary, listing her current employer, and detailing the observation and attempted resolution of her in Helsinki.
“She is working for the American R Section again?” said the third director.
“That is obvious beyond all question,” Stolinaya said. “She has access to their secret codes. She telephoned their headquarters from Paris on the instruction of the agent November. She had worked with November three years before. We choose to upgrade her status to ‘Journalist/American/Intelligence Agent in deep cover.’”
“That seems reasonable.”
Stolinaya frowned. “There is one other matter here and I wish you would consider it.”
“Yes?”
“She and the agent November have been agents provocateurs twice now, and they have exceeded their normal and expected briefs within R Section. In addition, the agent November has been responsible for the unwilling defection of our agent, Tiomkin, three years ago as well as the uncovering of our mole inside R Section. I request that you consider his name for assassination.”
“And the woman?”
“No, not yet. Her effectiveness seems tied to her operation with him. She is a propagandist at worst; a nuisance.”
“But an assassination invites retaliation in kind,” the third director said with a frown.
“Two years ago, he retired from the R Section and then rejoined the service. We do not quite understand all the matters but perhaps he will detach himself from the Section again. And its protection.”
The third director sighed. He took the paper proffered and placed it face down on his neat, empty desk top. He sighed again. “These matters must be decided at the highest level,” he began.
“I understand, Comrade Director.”
“For the moment, though, this November is still under the protection of the Service?”
“Yes, Comrade Director.”
“Then let us tread carefully,” the third director said. “Let us wait and decide if it is worth the retaliation to us to eliminate him.”
29
George had met Ely at the airport in London and given him a final verbal instruction. Ely was frightened of the order.
“I’m certain she’s merely a journalist,” Ely said.
“Are you really?” George had smiled in his superior way. “My dear Ely, we have made other determinations. She is fouling up our operation, things going on you know nothing about.”
“Than why not use someone who understands the reason to max the woman?” Ely said at last.
“Ely, you are existing on sufferance inside Auntie. I hope you understand that plainly. This is not a matter of discussion.”
“She’s a civilian, George. She told us everything.”
“She set up Sparrow in your bedroom, your bloody girlfriend did. You saw him there, Ely, with the top of his head blown off. Who do you suppose arranged that?”
Of course he had to max her. There was never a choice in these matters, not after you received the L Order in your career at Auntie, permitting you to kill in situations other than self-defense. He had killed before, justly or not; he was convinced that killing Rita Macklin was not just. But then, Ely had no choice.
He touched the small Beretta automatic in the pocket of his coat. His hands were cold, the pistol was cold. He had felt depressed on the flight from London to Helsinki, thinking of the woman, thinking of what had happened in Vienna two years before. He had lost his nerve once; this was a second chance and there would not be a third.
He tried to hate Rita Macklin for killing Sparrow but realized he had no feelings of hate or disgust or righteousness. Everything in him was empty.
He rode the silent elevator to the sixth floor. She was registered in a room on the sixth floor of the Presidentti Hotel. He walked down the silent corridor and placed his fingers around the grip of the pistol in his pocket.
George was right, of course; the service could not permit the murder of Sparrow to be unanswered. Yet was she the one who had set up Sparrow? Was she a spy? George was right again. Everything indicated it.
Ely had worn a light coat and it was too cold. His face was blotchy red with the cold. His pale blue eyes were tired. His ginger mustache was not fierce anymore; the ends drooped around his thin mouth. He felt so terribly tired, even sick of the game.
But it was the only game he played.
He flicked off the safety of the automatic and knocked at her door.
Quickly.
He pulled the pistol from his pocket.
The corridor was empty and light.
Maybe she had fled, he thought suddenly. Maybe there was nothing he could do.
The chain rattled on the other side of the door. The handle turned.
He brought the pistol up to the level of his chest.
Quickly. Without pain for her; with only a lingering horror in the aftermath for him.
Rita Macklin opened the door wide. Her face was drawn, pale. She stared at him and the pistol with green, fearful eyes. She trembled.
“I’m sorry, Miss Macklin,” he said with politeness that struck him as terribly absurd. He wanted to speak again but she shrank back from him into the narrow hall of the room. He held his pistol in front of him and saw that it trembled.
“My God,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated inanely. “I am so sorry.”
“You’re not sorry yet.” The harsh, surging voice came from the side of the hall. He was abreast of the bathroom door and yet Ely could not turn to face the voice because the barrel of a large gun was stuck in his ear. The cold of the metal shocked him.
Without a command, he lowered the pistol even as Rita took another stumbling step back into the room.
“Him,” she said with a shaking voice. “The British agent.”
“Close the door,” Devereaux said. Rita edged around them and pushed the door shut and locked it.
“Why did you come here?” Devereaux said.
“I had to see—”
“No more lies,” Devereaux said. “Speak the truth.”
“Really. I cannot say anything.”
“I’ll blow your head off.”
“That’s melodramatic—”
“Merely true.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Ely said sadly, still staring ahead of him, unable to turn toward Devereaux. “It was the method you used in Dublin with Sparrow. You and Miss Macklin. George was right.”
“Who is Sparrow?”
“Come now. He’s the one you killed in Dublin. In my room.”
“So you came to kill Rita.”
Ely felt very tired. It was over at least. He was calm. They would kill him in a moment, without words or regret. It was better to die than to have to kill again; better to end this sordid life at the hands of another than to stumble on through with it.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I came to kill her. She had killed one of our agents. We can’t permit that.”
Ely closed his eyes and waited for death.
But the pistol muzzle was pulled away from his ear. He opened his eyes and blinked. He turned his head and saw the winter-hard face of the man with gray eyes in the doorway of the bathroom.