He paused and puffed the little cigar. “How unfortunate for Brent. He really became quite expendable after that. Not that he wasn’t loyal, but we do not make the same mistakes in hiring our assassins that you do. We sent the Russians a message that Tomas Crohan — who had a new life in the guise of Michael Brent — was an American spy and your admirable army did the rest for us when they entered Austria.”
The Russian frowned again, by way of concentration. George was enjoying himself.
“Let us look at the American problem, old man. It seems certain they did not want to see Crohan emerge from Austria after the war either, after allowing him to dangle there for two years. They were quite relieved the Russians arrested him.”
“We discovered that he was an American spy.”
“Did they let you discover that?” He waved the cigar again. “Let it go. In any event, there were protests after the war from Ireland, from the Crohan family, from some of the State Department people in the United States who had arranged the fiasco. Some in the OSS were upset as well because everyone thought that Crohan was alive.
“Well, darling, what could we tell our American cousins? That we had solved their problem by killing Crohan ourselves?
“So the OSS did a quite clever thing, or so they thought. They let leak to you evidence that Crohan was a Nazi collaborator. Pictures of him with Hitler before the war; faked documents to show that he had been working hand-in-glove with the Nazis during the war. That is why he was in Vienna. But the evidence was puzzling because the man you had was obviously not Crohan. So you waited and the Americans thought you had fallen for their trick and we, of course, were satisfied to hear the last of the matter. My God, we thought we were all fooling each other.” George laughed then, a deep, rumbling chuckle that ended in a fit of coughing. He put down the cigar and reached for the cup of tea laced with milk.
“We did not know who this man was, not for two years after the war.”
“Of course. He was a bloody British agent. If he kept silent, assumed still Crohan’s identity, he thought he had a chance of being released eventually. He was an Irish neutral, after all. A British agent would never have gotten out of your admirable prison network.”
“In 1947, he identified himself. He protested that he was Michael Brent.”
“And by that time, you didn’t believe him.”
“No.”
“Aided by the fact that we sent unofficial word to you that we had no agent named Michael Brent. His file was expunged. It wasn’t so terribly difficult; unlike Crohan, he had no family and no one mourned his disappearance.”
Silence filled the bare room for a moment like a third person. The two men waited for words to return.
“Tartakoff was to accompany the prisoner long enough to tell his story to the American journalist—”
“His story of being Tomas Crohan—”
“And then Tartakoff would have killed him.”
“And the American agent if necessary, the messenger in Helsinki.”
“And Ely was going to be held responsible for the murder.”
“Yes. As the Americans say so colorfully, framed. Because Her Majesty’s government knew the truth about Michael Brent.”
“We conditioned Crohan for a year at Kresty Hospital. He could not live without the pills.”
“After forty years, we call him Crohan when we know he is not. I suppose he actually believes at times that he is Crohan. He has lived in that dead man’s skin for so long.”
“But the trap is sprung and empty.”
“Yes. Too bad.” Again, he reached for the cigar. It had gone out. He fumbled for his lighter. “A lot of work, that. Too bad. But do you see, my dear fellow? Even if I am implicated by the Russian, what good is his charge? If I am vetted by Auntie, I shall come through with flying colors. I am in charge of Computer Section, after all; I am the man who controls Seeker and I know what my records say about me. They are spotless, full of commendations. If it is necessary, we will bring up the matter of Bluebird to the PM. We handled that rather well, it reflects well on me, considering our people kidnapped the poor darling themselves.” George smiled again. “Poor old Wickham. But when we have thrown Wickham to the wolves, they will be satisfied and, in a half year’s time, I shall be as unassailable as I have always been inside Auntie. Don’t forget the case of American cooperation with us — the Yanks want us to handle their missile bases, they need British support to keep NATO from collapsing. It is not in their best interest to raise doubts of Her Majesty’s Secret Service based on the ramblings of a Soviet defector who may or may not have any solid information. Even if the old man makes it back to the U.S., which I seriously doubt, who is he and why will his voice be heard?”
“The journalist?”
“This Macklin woman? She’s a spy, Latvia, for the love of God; she’s under her own orders.”
“Can we be certain?”
“Nothing is certain.” George paused. “Uncertainty is the only interesting proposition left to us.”
“But the Americans will suspect you.”
“The Americans suspected Philby from 1948 on and not a damned thing was done about it. The Americans suspect a lot of people but getting proof is something else, and Tartakoff is no proof. Her Majesty’s government is rather prickly on the subject of internal affairs; we do not wish to be told how to manage our affairs by the Americans. No, Latvia, nothing will happen because no one wants the embarrassment of the secrets of Tomas Crohan or Michael Brent — not you, not us, not the Americans. None of us.”
And George was absolutely right.
31
The sun lay low in the west. The light of the sun danced on the copper steeples poking above the massive buildings huddled on the islands of the city. The city lay in a frozen mosaic of stone that stretched clearly into the gray Baltic beyond.
Devereaux and Rita Macklin made love.
The blinds were thrown up to catch the last of the light falling gently into the large, quiet hotel room. Next door, in a locked room, the old man slept. As the ferry from Finland had approached Stockholm harbor, the old man suddenly in tears had confessed to Rita that he was Michael Brent, not Tomas Crohan. The story had thrilled her but depressed Devereaux.
The old man’s story seemed to doom them, Devereaux thought. Every side would be turned against them. But Devereaux said none of these things to Rita when they were finally alone. He still had silences but she had shattered his coldness. Devereaux realized he loved her. It was absurd but it was true.
He kissed her breasts gently. He licked them. He kissed her mouth. He held her in the hollow of his body and arms. He warmed her as he felt the warmth of holding her seep slowly into the icy crevices of his own feeling. He made love to her as though she were as fragile as a glass angel; he loved her slowly; when she spoke, once, he held his hand over her mouth because he hated words. Words glossed every real thing with brittle artifice and deceit. Words were always lies, always intended to deceive even when they held the truth; the truth of things was in not speaking, was in touching and not telling.
When they were finished, they lay back on the bed, side by side, their arms extended and their hands touching but their bodies apart from each other. They were like exhausted survivors of some shipwreck washed up on a foreign shore. They stared at the ceiling and the last light of afternoon colored the room with shades of gold.
“What are we going to do?” she asked at last. She might have been asking the question for herself or for the sake of the old man in the next room; the question might have had many answers due it.