He had always counted on his own survival as the goal of life, from Vietnam to here. There had been a thousand hotel rooms in the twenty years, a thousand places like this one. He had known women when he wanted them and taken little pleasures like a priest sipping brandy on Sunday; but he had stayed apart from the world, from its attachments. He had chosen to be a stranger because it was the only way to survive.
“I know what you are. You’re a goddamn spook, a spy.” She had said it to him once in her curious tough, little-girl way, her slight overbite making her aggressive face seem more threatening but, at the same time, not really a threat; she was a make-believe bully who might be tough.
Yes, he thought, Was she tough enough?
Did he believe Hanley?
No. Not at all. But the time to survive was over for him, he realized. It meant nothing to him if there was nothing left to survive for. Devereaux realized that he was afraid of Rita Macklin because she had offered herself to him a second time and if he had refused her again, then it would all be ended for him. An odd fate had given him a second chance and he had instinctively seized it, enmeshing her in the assignment until she could no longer be extricated. Until she could no longer leave him.
But what would happen a month from now or a year from now, when she had lived with him and slept with him and found that it was not enough for her? He was afraid of that as well. But then, he had been afraid before and he had lived with the fear without reward, except for survival. This was something more.
Devereaux watched the old man eat. It was morning and Rita still slept in her room, but Devereaux had taken the old man downstairs to a restaurant in the hotel. The restaurant was decorated with green plants and with its huge windows it resembled a sort of greenhouse shut down by winter. A blustery morning buffeted the solemn city beyond the large plate-glass windows. The windows were coated with frost.
Again, the old man ate eggs as he had on the Finlandia, but this time, he had reduced their numbers because he had eaten too many before. He ate two eggs and ate them with relish, as though eggs were not a common thing.
“What story are you going to tell Rita Macklin?” Devereaux said. A cup of coffee smoldered in front of him but he did not eat. Devereaux ate only for fuel and only when his body demanded it; he took no pleasure in food.
“About Tomas Crohan?”
Devereaux waited.
The old man had egg yolk on his lips. He sucked his lips and the smear disappeared. He licked his lips with his thin tongue. His thin throat was all movement as he ate — Adam’s apple bobbing, lines of muscles quivering as he swallowed.
“I was supposed to tell you the truth as though I were Tomas Crohan. Those were my instructions. The truth in any case, except I am not Tomas Crohan.”
“And what will you do now?”
“Do you think I should eat another egg?”
Devereaux stared at him and did not speak.
“Cheese,” the old man said. “I could have cheese and fruit. Even in winter, look at this fruit.”
The old man snatched an apple and bit into it. He reached for a plate of cheese on the table and shoved a piece in his mouth even as he slowly ingested the apple. His eyes were sad suddenly, misted as the windows misted.
“A man could kill for a meal such as this in the camps. In Siberia. Do you know that?”
“Is it the truth?”
“Yes. We are all beasts if survival demands it.”
Devereaux stared at the plate of food and tried to comprehend the idea of starving men fighting each other to death for these scraps.
“When I was a young man, Citizen Comrade, I thought the world contained at least a few absolutes. There was good somewhere and evil, certainly. And there was freedom. But now I am old and very wise.” The old man smiled.
“You are free now,” Devereaux said.
“No. You do not mind if I contradict you.” The old man tore a piece of black bread with his yellow teeth. “I am not free and you know it. The prison has just gotten larger. You want to take me to Dublin, where I will be put in another jail because I am Michael Brent who killed their Tomas Crohan in 1944. Why did I kill him? Because I was so certain of good and evil. I was an agent and I would kill for King and Country and Crohan must be killed for the safety of the nation. Hah.” He dropped the bread and reached for a second apple.
His eyes glistened. “I would kill a man for a piece of bread in Siberia and that was more important than killing a man to save my native land. Do you see what a fraud everything is?”
Devereaux waited without prodding. His hands rested on the table in front of him. The coffee was not touched.
“Such a waste of life. Look at my life, sir. My whole life is gone. You see, there are tears in my eyes. I can still cry for myself because who else will cry for me? My whole life is nearly ended and I was a prisoner for so long; and now there is still no freedom for me or peace.”
“Who are you?” Devereaux said at last. The old man seemed surprised.
“I told you, sir. I am Michael Brent.”
“No,” Devereaux said.
The old man stared at him.
“You are Tomas Crohan.”
“I killed him.”
“No. For thirty-eight years, you have been Tomas Crohan. You have lived the life you took.”
“But who will believe that?”
“I do. Who won’t believe it? It is mostly the truth except for the first fact; it is probably more of the truth than most stories have. The English will believe it because they cannot contradict it. The Russians will believe it. Anyone who could contradict it is dead, even the old woman in America who is so sure you are alive will believe you are alive if you tell her it’s true. There was no British double cross; you were Tomas Crohan who went on a mission of mercy for the Americans in the war. You went into Vienna to save Jews and when you found they were dead, you were trapped in Vienna and eventually imprisoned by the Russians.”
“Why did they release me?”
Devereaux smiled. The old man was smart enough to want to grasp the lie Devereaux told him. It would work out.
“I don’t know,” Devereaux said. “Perhaps you escaped.”
“I could not escape.”
“We can suggest that Tartakoff took you out when he defected. Maybe that would be the best way.”
“Where is he?”
“In Washington now, getting the first debriefing from the Section. He will agree with anything you tell the reporter, believe me.”
“But you know the truth. And Miss Macklin, she knows the truth.”
“Yes. Some secrets can’t be helped.”
The old man tore another piece of bread. “It is a secret then?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman agrees with you?”
Devereaux did not hesitate: “Yes.”
“Why?”
“That is my secret.”
“What did my country do to me? Should I not take revenge on them if this is so important?”
“Do you feel the need for revenge?”
“For a long time I did.” He paused. “It kept me alive. They abandoned me.”
“No. They betrayed you.”
“Yes. There is a difference, I suppose. It took me a long time to understand what they did to me. Why shouldn’t I take revenge now on them and tell the truth about what they did to me?”
“Who cares?”
The old man looked up sharply at the man with the wintery face across the table from him.
“I care. I bled. I suffered.”
“And now you will die if you want to take revenge. Your ‘truth’ leads to death or more prison for you; my ‘truth’ will set you free.”