“But I feel it, sir. I am a man. I am a man.”
“All right.” Devereaux finally tasted the coffee and made a face. He put the cup down. “I’ll take care of your revenge. You take care of your survival.”
“I do not understand all of this,” the old man said. “Should I choose to trust you, sir?”
The old man looked up slyly; it was the sidelong look of the eternal prisoner, always under scrutiny and yet surviving because he kept his strength hidden from those would make him weak.
“Yes, Tomas. This matter was not of my making or yours, and now we are both in the middle of it. And Rita Macklin as well. I don’t have any choice and neither do you.”
“Then we are both prisoners, sir,” the old man said.
Devereaux did not speak.
“But it is a larger prison than the one I came from,” the old man said. “Yes. I will do as you say.”
32
Stolinaya was not accustomed to being summoned by the man who was Gogol, the operations officer in charge of that section of the KGB called the Committee for External Observation and Resolution. It had never happened before in these circumstances.
Gogol was a small man with Asian features and he sat behind an immense desk in a windowless room framed with immense General Electric air conditioners. They were operating at the moment though the temperature outside the building was twenty-two degrees; the heating system was so erratic that the air conditioners were needed to offset the steady rush of heat that permeated the building.
Gogol had been given Stolinaya’s reports on the Helsinki incident and on the classification of a new spy in the logs of the KGB central computer.
Stolinaya was very nervous. Gogol was the highest-ranking member of the bureaucracy that Stolinaya had ever dealt with. All the time he awaited the hour of the summons he had fretted about the report and evaluation he had turned in on Rita Macklin and the spy whose name was November. Perhaps he had overstated the case; worse, perhaps he had understated it. He sweated now as he waited on Gogol, who was rereading the reports arrayed on his massive desk.
“Why is the woman important?”
“I beg your pardon, Comrade Director?”
“Why is the woman important?”
“Sir, because she is a spy. She must be reevaluated in the light of her work with the R Section in the United States three years ago and her work as the agent of this November in Helsinki. In both cases, sir”—and here he paused to cough—“in both cases, it resulted in the defection of one of our agents. This is not the work of a journalist; it is the work of an agent.”
Gogol smiled thinly, his brown lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth, like a serpent smiling the moment before striking.
“I do not think so.”
“Comrade,” said Stolinaya stoically and automatically.
“But you make a clear case for November. His name is Devereaux.”
“Yes.”
“He has annoyed me on occasion before. The woman is used by him, certainly, but he is the agent provocateur. He is not a spy but a counterinsurgent to our operations. And now he is to leave the Section.”
Stolinaya only stared.
“We have that information, I can assure you. He will leave the Section at the conclusion of this matter. I think it would be worthwhile then to consider a change in his position. Yes, a considerable change.” And Gogol smiled because he had spoken English at the end to enjoy the English pun and the man across the desk from him was puzzled.
“Sir?”
“The woman, Macklin, is not important to us. We have no evidence against her. But the man. He is going to be our target.”
“Will you upgrade the agent Macklin?”
“Yes, of course. Your work is essential to us, Stolinaya. But Macklin is not important to us. Unless she is in the way. We have to deal with November not only because of his success against us but because of his insolence. Twice he has kidnapped our agents, once in the United States, now in Finland. He is a bad example. He operates outside the orders of his own section. I do not feel there will be reprisals against us when he is finished with.”
“Why, Comrade Director?”
“We operate in constraints, their side and ours. He is beyond our control and their control. He does not follow their orders but he has been lucky in defying them. No, the time of November is over now, I think.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Recall these files on November and on the Macklin woman. They will need adjustment, I think, in the light of what is going to happen.”
“What adjustment, sir?”
Gogol stared hard at Stolinaya. “We need some pretext and I am certain you will find it. When November was in Ireland five years ago on that matter with the IRA, do you suppose he stole money and guns while working for his government? He was in France two years ago; I believe he was dealing cocaine on the black market.”
Stolinaya stared at the printout in front of him. He shook his head. “I do not see this in his files.”
“Yes, because it is not in his files yet. It will be. So that when November is taken care of and there is a mild inquiry from the Opposition, we will just as mildly return the files to them that you have prepared. On November and, in the event it is necessary, on the journalist. Do you understand now?”
And Stolinaya, who arranged files and was proud of his scrupulous work, realized he was to use the computer to justify a killing. He nodded at the small, yellow man in front of him. Yes, he understood and he felt sick at the understanding.
33
Hanley picked up the black phone connected to the double-scrambler box and held it to his ear without speaking.
“What happened?” came the voice from the other end of the line. Because of the antitapping precautions built into the phone system, the voices were not true, especially over long distances; but even without resonance, Hanley recognized Devereaux’s flat, even speech.
“Where are you?” Hanley leaned back in his chair. Washington was in the drab throes of an early spring; the sky was sullen and streaked with vertical dark clouds; the wind was warm; the grounds of the Mall around the Reflecting Pool were wet and spongelike. Hanley reflected the sullen mood of the city.
“It doesn’t matter where I am at the moment. Did you take care of those matters?”
“This is a damnable gift you’ve sent us. A British agent on the run and a reluctant Russian defector. How did you get them out of Finland?”
“I helped a Helsinki policeman and he helped me. We’re supposed to cooperate with the local authorities in these matters,” Devereaux said, mocking Hanley and the primary manual for intelligence officers distributed to new recruits in the Section.
“Damn you, November. You’ve put me in the middle.”
“It’s a rare experience for you,” Devereaux admitted. “Welcome to the club.”
“Tartakoff puts us in some difficulty.”
“I supposed he would.”
“The problem is George.”
“So Tartakoff says.”
“Damn you, this is not a time for levity.”
“What does the New Man say?”
“Yackley is hopping mad and he’s taking it out on me. He’s angry with you.”
“Fuck him.”
“Yes that’s very well for you, you’re getting out—”
“Have you arranged those retirement matters?”
“They’re proceeding, if you’re serious.”
“Did you think I would change my mind?”
Yes, Hanley thought. It was the thing he had counted on. Despite the dangerous nature of the man, Hanley had hoped for two years he might slip Devereaux back into some frontline operation, but Yackley’s dislike for November had never abated. Yackley did not see what Hanley saw too clearly: The Section had grown flabby; it needed some life, some thought, some bold stroke to renew itself. If he had to admit it to anyone, Hanley would have said the Section could not afford to let Devereaux go.