Sweat beaded on Tartakoff’s flushed face. “You cannot kill me. I am still a defector, I have many things I can tell you—”
“Tell me.”
“You promise me sanctuary—”
“Promises are past. Tell me things.”
“Please, the pistol hurts me—”
“Only for a moment, Russian. The bullets contain soft, crossed heads. They will explode on impact and part of them will tear the roof of your mouth away and explode your brain. Others will blow out the back of your neck and your skull. You understand me, Russian; you’ve killed a few people in your time.”
Devereaux’s face had become absolute winter, absolute ice and cold. His eyes were clear arctic fields of ice; his lined face was the terror of a white winter sky.
Ely did not move; no one moved for a moment.
“I was not to defect,” Tartakoff said.
“That’s a lie. You were a triple and you have a fallback if you see the trap won’t work.”
“I know about the old man.”
“Tell me.”
“I cannot tell you. I need an assurance.”
“I can only assure you that you are a dead man, Russian.”
“Tomas Crohan is the man you sent to Austria in the war. An American spy,” said the Russian.
“I know that.”
Tartakoff’s eyes widened. “Then why do you not say this before?”
“I’m tired of you, Russian.”
Devereaux pulled the trigger.
Click.
The Russian shuddered. “One empty chamber. It is a precaution. The next chamber is live. You know it is live.”
“My God, you are going to kill me.”
“You are dead already.”
“What can I tell you?”
“The truth.”
“I—”
“Tell me about the British. Tell me how you manipulated them so well.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“The mole,” Devereaux said softly. Ely’s eyes widened now in fascination. He sat bolt upright on the edge of the chair.
“The mole.”
“Don’t repeat what I said, Russian. Tell me what I don’t know. It is the only part I don’t understand. How did you manipulate the British? How did they keep dogging my steps? Why did this British agent think that Rita Macklin was part of our operation? Why was there a Brit in Helsinki in the first place? I can understand the killings of the British agents if I can believe there is a mole. Somehow, you and Crohan and whatever story you’re putting together is supposed to drive some wedge between us. Mutual mistrust. Your disinformation is supposed to accomplish it.”
“I don’t know of a mole—”
“That is a lie, Russian. There has to be one. None of this could work if someone on the inside in British Intelligence had not set it all in motion. How did the British suddenly, randomly, tap into our message center in Stockholm when I made an inquiry about Crohan? I didn’t know who Crohan was, but you people did. And you made certain the British knew as well. Who is the mole?”
But the Russian did not answer; it was Ely. In a surprised voice, he blurted a name: “George.”
The Russian paled. He shook his head suddenly.
“George,” said Ely again. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Devereaux stared at Tartakoff. “Speak for the last time in your life.”
“Yes,” Tartakoff said at last. “George.”
Tension exploded out of the room like a burst balloon. Devereaux removed the pistol from Tartakoff’s cheek; it left an impression against the skin, angry and red.
“Who is George really?” Devereaux said, not to the Russian.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Ely said in a wondering tone. “He told me Rita Macklin was the agent who had set up Sparrow. You and her. He used me.”
“He used everyone.”
“But he must have known I would fail.”
Devereaux did not speak.
“Used like that,” Ely said.
“Crohan was the important link then, wasn’t he, Russian?”
The Russian only stared at Devereaux’s gun and did not speak.
“What were you?”
“I was not important,” Tartakoff said.
“Crohan was not the bait for the trap. You were the bait. Crohan was going to make the trap work.”
“Yes.”
“And then you were going to kill him. Or see the job done. So that the story would not be confused in anyone’s mind. Crohan would say whatever he was going to say and then you’d see him dead. Or me. Or Rita. Or all of us. And then you would still have the option to play the defector or return to the Soviet Union.”
The Russian shrugged; something like a smile returned to the arrogant features. The pistol in Devereaux’s hand did not frighten him now.
“Who is George?” Devereaux asked Ely again.
“The man in charge of computer division in Auntie. He is the British commander at Cheltenham.”
“A nice base for traitors,” Devereaux said.
Tartakoff made a sudden move for the pistol. Devereaux waited for it almost as a cat waits for the mouse to dart across the floor. He slapped him lazily with the pistol through a high arc that cracked against his cheek again. Tartakoff slumped back in the chair.
“Be still, Russian,” Devereaux said. “George. Now do you see, Ely?”
“Yes,” Ely replied. “Not all of it, but I see enough.”
“And now we take care of the Russian.”
“What are you going to do?” Tartakoff said.
“Should I send you back to Russia? That wouldn’t be pleasant for you.”
Tartakoff did not speak. He saw the horror of his choices; there were no choices left to him. The careful trap had been handled clumsily and now it had sprung on him.
“Or you can defect,” said Devereaux.
There was a knock at the door.
Devereaux said “enter” in Swedish.
A short man with a bull neck and black eyes stood in the hall. He came into the room.
“Inspector Kulak,” Devereaux said to the Russian and Ely.
“Well, Mr. Devereaux, are you at last going to tell me what has really happened?”
“Of course,” Devereaux said. “Sit down. It makes a good story. All about spies and killings and mistakes made. You had your murderer today, but this is the man behind the murderer. Sit down. It’s a long story and you might get lost in it, but we have time now to make everything clear.”
30
The man who was called George entered the apartment building located three blocks off Trafalgar Square in the noisy, brassy heart of West End. He had followed all the usual precautions, including the routine double-back with two cabs, the aimless Underground trip on the Bakerloo Line and the final walk from the station at Piccadilly Circus down the crowded streets to Trafalgar.
George was a man at home with subterfuge because he had been successful at the game during a sometimes-brilliant twenty-seven-year career with British Intelligence.
Not to mention his fifteen-year career as an “exterior officer” with the rank of colonel in the Soviet Committee for State Security.
The two roles had never seemed at odds to him and he had not been discomforted by them until the new spy scandals of the past two years. The belated discovery of a double agent at Cheltenham — under his nose, as it were — in 1982 had troubled him. Not because he was unaware that the traitor named Prine was also passing secrets to the Soviet Union but because the discovery had focused too much attention on what had always been a secure little fiefdom where he could routinely pass on information to Moscow or tap into the Americans who also utilized the center and still enjoy the comfortable respect of his colleagues without fear that any of them would tumble to his secret. A secret life was best lived openly, George had always felt.