Before he had been killed, Cacciato had transmitted Felker’s sample cipher to Hanley. The Section had agreed to pay off Felker, at least until he got to the United States. The book was important, but Mrs. Neumann thought Felker’s message was of sufficient length to be cracked. It was a tedious task, and she and her “geniuses” in computer analysis were at the job now.
The Old Man had been distinctly unhappy over the development.
“Fucking Opposition,” he had fumed.
“We assume so.”
“What happened to Felker?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe he diced Cacciato.”
“I don’t think so; it really wouldn’t make any sense. It’s a possibility, but it wouldn’t make any sense.”
“The English were after Felker.”
“They were miles away.” Hanley had paused then. “At least, we assume they weren’t that close on the trail. We haven’t been able to get a flutter from Brit Intell.”
And then, this morning, he had received the call to his unlisted home telephone, pulling him out of a foggy sleep. The call had amazed him nearly as much as the call he had received four years before after the problem at Gdansk and the subsequent foul-up. But that had been an entirely different situation.
The lower level of the parking garage was full of gleaming cars, sheathed in their stalls like so many hooded falcons. The instructions had been very clear about time and place, but vague about how long he would have to wait. They were probably observing him, Hanley thought, to be certain he was alone.
He did not feel afraid.
Washington was his cocoon, after all; he had lived in the city for thirty-one years. The bizarre world of spies and intelligence and covert operations that he directed as the second man of R Section seemed from this city nothing more than a mental exercise. At least, most of the time. Only now, when confronted with a physical presence and the promise of a threat implied in the death of a field agent, did the world of real espionage insert itself into the skin of his polite society.
Before he saw the car, he heard the motor.
It purred into life at the far end of the parking level.
Hanley stood still and saw the auto suddenly rush down the narrow aisle toward him.
He waited. The car did not have lights though the parking level was lit dimly.
The Cadillac stopped a few feet from him. He automatically took notice of the diplomatic plates and the license number; he had a remarkable memory for such things.
The door of the car opened and a young man got out of the driver’s seat and walked around the front of the car and opened the right rear door. He then glanced at Hanley. With a shrug, Hanley bowed his head and stepped inside.
The automobile was very quiet, and a low musical sound seemed to come from hidden speakers buried in the black, plush depths of the interior. Hanley assumed they were musical bafflers, designed to shut out the probes of any directional microphones that might have been placed outside to spy on the conversations carried on inside the car.
The face of the Soviet agent was gray, as though he had been ill. His bulk was still massive, but there was a slackness in the body that indicated disease. He smelled sweet in the closed air of the car’s interior, as though he had doused himself with cologne to cover up a smell of corruption. His eyes were gray but rimmed in red around the irises.
For a moment neither man spoke, and then the Soviet — he was, in fact, the third man in the intelligence section that worked out of the Soviet embassy — began without preamble. He spoke in a soft, whispery voice that was accented heavily.
“We had nothing to do with Cacciato.”
“Why do you tell me?”
“Because he was your agent.”
“No. We have no one there. He was Langley.”
“No, Hanley.” The bulk shifted next to him, but Hanley did not move. “We do not read Italian newspapers for information, as you do.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“But you came.”
“I am always ready to listen.” Hanley stared at the back of the leather cushion on the front seat. The Cadillac contained amenities, including a small bar that snapped open now from behind the front seat.
“You would have lunch now. I am sorry.” The Russian seemed to speak with regret. “But we can give you a martini. I do not have food, but perhaps a glass of Russian vodka?”
“No thank you. I prefer the Polish vodka, since they invented it.” It was childish and Hanley knew it, but he felt offended by the presumption of the other man.
The Russian rumbled into what was a brief flurry of laughter; it was punctuated by coughs. At the end, he wiped his lips with a well-used handkerchief. He studied the handkerchief for a moment and then pulled it away. Hanley noticed the gesture; when he returned to Section, he would make a memorandum about the health reports concerning the seldom-seen third man at the Soviet intelligence section of the embassy. Belushka was definitely ill.
“We would have provocation, Hanley. Felker murdered our man in England. You know this. And you were willing to make contact with him, to buy what he had.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“I am talking about your dead agent. Cacciato. We do not eliminate him. Do you understand?”
“Why do you insist on telling me this?”
“Because we do not want a mistake. Like the matter in Gdansk. There was too much at stake there and too many wrong moves. On both sides.”
Hanley said nothing.
“We do not want retribution, as there was after Gdansk. This was not our doing.”
“I am supposed to believe you?”
“Yes.” Softly. “You see, they have sent me. I never leave the embassy. In a little while, Hanley, I am going home. I have been relieved.” The voice was hollow, turned in on itself. “I am ill. I know you see this, that you will make a report on it. It does not matter.” He was silent. “I do not matter.”
Hanley said nothing.
“It is important we do not misunderstand each other,” the Soviet said again.
“Where is Felker?”
“I am not permitted to speak of anything but this matter. We did not kill Cacciato.”
“But you brought up Felker.”
“It was mistake,” the Russian said heavily.
“And you have Felker now.”
“You may believe what you wish.”
“But Felker is part of the problem of the death of Cacciato.” Said almost casually, slyly.
“I do not know this,” Belushka said.
Hanley was puzzled; Belushka might be telling the truth, and that would be the most puzzling aspect of all.
“Will you tell them this? At R Section?” Belushka said with effort at breath.
“Perhaps,” Hanley said. He realized with a start that it was Devereaux’s usual response when pressed for a specific answer or commitment. Devereaux had never answered except in his own time and never explained. He had never accepted the role assigned to him.
“All right, Hanley,” Belushka said with heaviness. “I give you this message and it is true; if you do not choose to respond, then it will be on your head. If you begin war with us over this, if you kill our agents, then we will kill yours.”
“All right,” Hanley said. He had agreed to nothing. He reached for the handle of the car and the door was opened by the young driver, who had stood outside and waited for the conversation to be concluded.
“Oh.” Hanley turned in his seat back to Belushka. “One thing. Who follows me to lunch to see what I eat? Why would that be important?”
Belushka smiled. “Why do you think anyone follows you, Hanley?”