“And why take the trouble to put Reed at Lakenheath, and how could they have known that these English agents would try to turn him?”
“I met one of the Englishmen, and the other one is dead.” Devereaux’s voice was dry. “They’re a long way from James Bond. Lakenheath was a low-level operation for the British. They had low-level people there. It would be a perfect way to worm into Auntie.”
“Mrs. Neumann says she can’t even begin to figure out where the bad information started and where it stops.”
“Everything in Tinkertoy is infected?”
“Yes. Until we isolate it.”
Devereaux spoke after a moment of silence. “Then the KGB took care of Felker.”
“Why?”
“He upset their plans. He wasn’t supposed to steal from Reed.”
“But I received…an assurance…from a source that the Soviets were not involved.”
“And you still believe everything you read in the papers,” Devereaux said.
“They went out of their way…”
“Dammit, don’t tell me what the fucking Russians told you!” Devereaux’s voice had changed to that of a snarling, suddenly awakened animal. It was the animal of the streets that always slept inside the cold, calm exterior cage of the body. “I don’t give a fuck what the Russians have to say about anything!”
Hanley flushed. Every dealing with Devereaux was tense because of these rare moments when the beast was confronted; when the cooled anger inside the frame of his control suddenly flared to flames again and Hanley could see the edge of the restless soul.
It was as though all the contradictions inside Devereaux existed along a fault line that shifted from time to time, suddenly erupting into the pattern of the savage street kid who had once killed for survival on the streets of Chicago and who, by the odd results of intellect and opportunity, had put a polish of civilization over the veneer of the jungle. The Old Man had wanted to get rid of Devereaux. He had simply been afraid of him. “Devereaux is a dangerous man,” Galloway had said, and it was perfectly true.
“The contact was extraordinary,” Hanley said with stubbornness.
“Tinkertoy makes the links,” Devereaux said. “It’s your goddamn machine. Felker was killed and Cacciato was killed.”
“The Russians didn’t want retribution.”
“But maybe they’ll get it anyway.”
“You’re not sanctioned.”
“Yes, that’s right, Hanley. Don’t forget it. I’m not sanctioned for anything, but I’m here, even if my name is not on the roster at Section.”
Hanley did not speak for a moment, and then he veered away from the dangerous ground. “What about this Clermont woman?”
“I don’t know. It’s a matter of the approach. I didn’t expect the complication with this Simeon.”
“Did you…take him out?”
“No. There was no point to it.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I need a little time. A distraction.”
“What kind?”
“Quizon.”
“What about him?”
“He doesn’t know about me, but the Deuxième Bureau has to know about him. He’s been in Paris too long.”
“What about him then?”
“Make a diversion for Simeon,” Devereaux said.
“What do you want done?”
Devereaux told him. Hanley listened and did not register any emotion on his colorless face, but when Devereaux had finished, his voice was soft, as though recovering from an illness.
“But what would be the point?”
“The point is simple. Someone knew about Manning from the beginning. From the moment he came to Paris, perhaps before. Maybe Jeanne Clermont was a plot by the Deuxième Bureau itself, for some reason we don’t understand. In any case, Manning was blown the minute he came to the city.”
“You’re guessing.”
“Yes,” Devereaux said. “I’m not as certain about things as Tinkertoy. I can only guess, but Manning is definitely dead and that’s not a guess, and an agent of the Deuxième Bureau knows all about me and that’s not a guess.”
“No one knew about you,” Hanley began to protest.
“No. Not me. But about someone else coming in after Manning was killed. The possibilities are not endless. There was Manning himself. Maybe he gave it away to Jeanne Clermont; maybe she set him up. Maybe the Russians have penetrated the Section and they were set for me here. Maybe someone in Paris had to know about Manning.”
“Quizon. But Quizon wouldn’t betray us.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not if he’s as tapped as I think he is. Someone had to talk too much. It has to be Quizon.”
“But Quizon isn’t that important.”
“He’s a link. Just one more link. But when Tinkertoy started making its connections, it never connected Quizon, even though Quizon was the control officer for Manning.”
“You mean that someone has manipulated Tinkertoy?”
“What does Mrs. Neumann think?”
“Everything you suggest,” Hanley began vaguely. He paused. How could he convey this sense of being lost as though the underpinnings of the Section he had built and nurtured for twenty years were coming undone?
“Everything you suggest can’t be true,” Hanley said with weakness in his voice.
“If it’s not, then Manning isn’t dead and Felker isn’t and Cacciato isn’t. You don’t trust Tinkertoy now, and neither does Mrs. Neumann.” Devereaux spoke softly but his voice was plain, flat, and the very plainness made the words fall one by one, like a bell tolling. “The computer is fouling and you’ve had six months to find out why and you can’t. So you’ve put me back in the field to do the job backward.”
“And to find out why Manning was killed.”
“Yes.” For a moment, there was only the crackle of the line. “And why he had to be killed now.”
Hanley was suddenly startled; his senses were alert; adrenaline rushed through him. Something in the tone of Devereaux’s voice had changed.
“Now? You mean time has to be a factor, too?”
“Yes,” Devereaux said. “It’s the only part of the whole thing that would make any sense.”
“But how much time is there?”
“I don’t know,” Devereaux said. “But it can’t be very much. Until whatever is supposed to happen happens. Or they wouldn’t have taken Manning out.”
19
Simeon moved slowly along the brown canvas wall division set up in the large room. The Pompidou Centre museum was not crowded; the exhibit had not excited much interest. On the walls were photographs taken nearly forty years before, showing the landings of the Allied crafts at Normandy and the subsequent celebrations in the little villages along the coast liberated after five years under the Nazi heel. June 6, 1944; Simeon had remembered the day, had remembered the news coming over the wireless from the BBC. He had thought it was a trick until the adults had begun to celebrate around him in that apartment in Paris, when his father brought out a hidden cache of cognac and even offered him a drink. They had been so absurdly happy; his father had said, again and again, “Vive les américains.”
Vive les américains.
Simeon smiled, his grotesque clown’s face an odd counterpoint to the grim black-and-white photograph mounted on the gray mat before him. It was a photograph of the part of the Normandy coastline called Omaha Beach. The bodies of young men, twisted in death, had been captured by the photographer.
Simeon grunted, his hands behind his back, and turned into the next room.
It was empty. In the entire room was only a single photograph, blown up to gigantic proportions. The photograph was of an American soldier bending over at the waist, burdened by his tools of war, his combat uniform caked with mud, his face made old by what he had seen and done, offering a candy bar to a child in neat but ragged clothes who carried a small American flag in her hand.