Devereaux and Colonel Ready walked down a narrow cul-de-sac off the Rue St. Martin. They were in the old quarter of Lausanne, in a nest of streets that straggled down the hill from the cathedral and from the university building. They came to a five-story building of gray stucco with small balconies and tall, mournful windows, shuttered against September though the day was still calm and warm. In the summer there were concerts under the trees in the courtyard of the cathedral and the students from the university sold bratwurst and thick bread and plastic cups of beer. Children had played under the trees. Rita Macklin and Devereaux would listen to the music from their balcony window in the gray building all during that beautiful, lingering summer.
Devereaux turned the key in the lock of his apartment door and opened it. Ready said Rita would not be there and he knew she would not be there but still he expected her when he opened the door. He had bought her flowers and they stood in a bowl on the table near the French windows.
Ready had it all figured out. He’d given Devereaux orders:
“We’re going to catch the two o’clock ferry to the French side. You’ll need your passport.”
Devereaux passed through the rooms of the small apartment. He opened the dresser drawer and took out his blue American passport. She was everywhere. He could hear her voice in the silent rooms.
He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and flushed the toilet. While the water ran out of the bowl, he lifted the lid from the water tank and removed a pistol from a holster that was glued to the underside of the lid. The pistol was black with a brown grip and was six inches long from front sight to firing chamber. It was a version of the Colt Python .357 Magnum which Devereaux had acquired years ago in R Section. He had not carried it all summer. But he had decided to keep the gun when he had been reported killed.
Devereaux spun the barrel slowly. The bullets were seated in their cylinders. He carried a revolver instead of an automatic because an automatic could always jam. Once a week, when she was not there, Devereaux would break down the parts of the pistol and rub the dark metal with oil and the oil would leave a sweet smell in the room. Rita never saw him clean the pistol or reseat the bullets in the revolving chamber because he did not want to remind her of the old life or what he had been. There was only the smell of oil that lingered after he had put the pistol away. She never mentioned it.
Devereaux put the pistol on a clip in his belt. They were going to take the ferry across Lac Léman to the town of Evian on the French shore. It was a quiet old spa town where old people came to cure themselves of age.
Devereaux would kill Colonel Ready in Evian after he found out about Rita Macklin and where she was. It was possible that Ready had already killed her. But then she would not be “leverage” for him anymore.
Devereaux would see that Rita was safe and then he would agree to whatever Colonel Ready wanted him to do. Then he would kill Ready near the Evian train station. It was not used much because summer was over and because most of the tourists who went to Evian drove cars or took the ferry across the lake from Lausanne.
There were two hotels on the square across from the train station but they were always empty at this time of year. There was a bar in one hotel but the owner was deaf. Besides, Devereaux would get very close to Ready and Ready would know what it meant. Ready would reach for his pistol and Devereaux would shoot him. It didn’t matter very much where the bullets hit because they had exploding caps and the bullets blew apart when they hit their target.
Devereaux came out of the bathroom, turned off the light, and checked the street through the window. “I wasn’t followed down here,” Ready said.
Devereaux said nothing.
“They followed me as far as the airport at Zurich. I think they were from Langley. They’re always watching me.”
“You don’t work for Langley anymore.”
“In a sense, that’s true,” Ready said.
“Where is she?”
“We’ll go down the metro to Ouchy and catch the two o’clock ferry. Don’t worry, Devereaux.”
The ferry had begun service on Lac Léman in 1915. It was wooden and the side-wheels churned the cold waters as the ship pulled away from the dock at Ouchy beneath the sprawl of Lausanne. The paddles bit into the smooth water and the steam engine amidships chugged and vibrated as the boat struck for open water.
Devereaux and Ready stood on the empty open deck on the first-class level: No one bought first-class tickets for the thirty-minute crossing. Devereaux’s face was chapped by the cold wind formed as the boat plowed into the long lake that threaded through the mountains. The French side was seven miles across from Lausanne.
“She’s over there. Waiting. She’s safe enough. I don’t mean her any harm. Or you.”
Devereaux stared at the sea and at the fog trailing down at the surface of the water. Fourteen months ago he had died in service in Zurich. He had been awarded a posthumous medal for valor. His 201 file in R Section had been consigned to the “Inactive Library.” Three people inside R Section knew he was not dead. And now Colonel Ready knew it as well and Devereaux could not understand why he wanted to open the secret. Except for once, he had not crossed Ready’s path since Vietnam, seventeen years ago.
Except for the favor he had asked six years ago. For Rita.
Devereaux winced. He had made himself vulnerable to Ready then.
“I remembered the girl, you know,” Ready said at that moment, as though all of Devereaux’s thoughts were naked to him. “From when I was still at DIA, when I still had access clearance. You wanted to know about Rita Macklin’s brother, the missionary, whether he had been clean in Laos. And I told you. A little favor must have meant a lot to you.”
Devereaux stared at Ready. “You shouldn’t have looked for me.”
“Sleeping dogs and dead agents, then? Maybe. But I cleared up the matter for you six years ago and for your girl, and I think I can ask you for a little favor.”
“Ask me. You can’t blackmail me with her. You know me better than that.”
“I knew you. But you’ve changed, Devereaux.” The blue eyes were hard. “You’d have cut your grandmother if she was in the way, but you’ve changed. It’s made you softer, Devereaux, not that I blame you. She’s a good-looking girl. A lot younger than you are.”
Devereaux would shoot Ready at the train station in Evian. He would shoot him only once, in the belly, and back away from him while Ready fell, his belly spilled open like a broken pumpkin.
“You counted on your own survival and now I’m betting that isn’t as important as her survival. That’s what I’m betting on.”
“Nobody changes as much as you make out,” Devereaux said.
“Your girl was in Paris and she was coming home on the TGV train to Geneva, changing to the local up to Lausanne. Instead, she got rerouted at Geneva. We waited there for her and I had my aide take her to Evian. I wanted to get you used to the idea before you saw her. Used to the idea that I had something to talk to you about.”
“Who do you work for, Ready?”
“Myself, you might say. Like you. Do you know why I knew it had to be the girl? I mean, when I went looking for you?” He smiled. “You left yourself open to me six years ago when you wanted to find out if her missionary brother was an agent. You never leave yourself open. It had to be the woman, I thought at the time. I put that away in my little file.” He tapped his head with his forefinger. “Your Achilles heel, you might say.”
Six years ago, he had met Rita Macklin. She had been a journalist. They both wanted the secret of an old priest who had come out of Laos after twenty years. She had wanted to clear her dead brother’s name. She was closer to the secret than he, so Devereaux had used her, made love to her, conspired against her, all to get the secret from the old priest. But then he had fallen in love with Rita.
And because of that love he had exposed himself to Ready. Had he left other clues on his trail for others who might want to find him alive?
Devereaux frowned. The ferry was closing on the French shore and the sleepy buildings of Evian shining in the afternoon light. It was chilly on the deck. He shivered and felt the weight of the pistol at his belt. And he saw Ready shivered as well.
“You must work in a warm place,” Devereaux said softly.
“My khakis? Had regular clothes I picked up in New York, but I wore the khakis on the plane and the fucking airline lost the bag. Those two from Langley, or maybe DIA, were on my tail so I said to hell with it. Gave them the slip at Zurich. Probably a couple of stiffs from surveillance division. They’ve been following me around ever since I resigned from Langley six years ago. Went on my own. They think I’m a soldier of fortune.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe,” said Ready.
“In a warm climate,” Devereaux said.
“Hell is warm,” Ready said.
“Is it hell, Ready?”
“Yes. But that’s not to say it doesn’t have its attractions. Like this.”
“What is it?”
“A gift for you, for listening to me so patiently. A bankbook. Two hundred thousand Swiss francs on deposit now to you at Credit Suisse. Is that your bank?”
“Don’t you know all about me?”
“No. Not all. I told you I was in a hurry. I just remembered the girl and she wasn’t so hard to find. Take the account.”
Devereaux slipped the book into the pocket of his coat and felt the slight bulge of the pistol.
He could kill Ready now except how would he get off the boat? And what if Rita were not on the Evian side waiting for them?
“I’ve got your attention? Nothing like the ring of shekels to improve a person’s hearing.”
“I’ll always take the money.”
“A good attitude. Never let conscience interfere with good judgment. We’re the same, you and I.”
“Who else knows about me?”
Ready paused. He smiled. He said, “A nigger named Celezon. My aide, you might say.”
The ferry sounded its horn then and began a slow turn into the water, creating a white arc of wake as it slid toward the dock of Evian. The Swiss and French flags on the white ferry snapped in the unexpected breeze.
“See her? She’s okay,” Ready said.
Devereaux saw Rita staring at the ferry, unable to see him on the deck. Her red hair was loose on her shoulders. She hunched against the wind inside her navy-blue coat.
Behind her was a black man in a dark raincoat.
“Celezon knows,” Devereaux said in a leaden voice. “And Ready knows. And the two men who followed you to Zurich.”
“No. Don’t worry about them. I’ve been to Zurich before. They always follow me. They always send someone. I’m a soldier of fortune. That’s what they think. And I put my fortune in accounts in Zurich, like all good tax evaders.”
So the secret was contained. Two of them. He would have to get rid of two of them now.
The ferry churned in the shallow waters as it edged toward the concrete dock of the Compagnie Générale de Navigation. Two dockhands in blue uniforms shoved across a wooden gangplank and tied the lines. The ferry ceased shuddering in the water. The passengers crowded around the plank and started down to the dock. Devereaux and Ready followed them from the deck.
A long time ago, during World War I, spies had used this familiar crossing from neutral Switzerland to wartime France to pass secrets and create lies. It was very different now. A thin French customs inspector in a blue uniform glanced at Devereaux’s passport and nodded him through. Colonel Ready followed.
Rita Macklin stood apart from Celezon but Devereaux saw that the black man held her right arm. She looked tired and pale. Her eyes were burning green. Then she saw Devereaux and she tried to shrug herself out of Celezon’s grip but the grinning black man held her tightly with one hand.
“She is delivered, mon colonel,” said Celezon to Ready, who came up from behind Devereaux to stand next to him.
Ready smiled at her. “You see, Miss Macklin? I always fulfill my promises. He’s safe and sound and you’re safe and sound.” Then he addressed Celezon, “She’s not a package, you black bastard—you can let go of her arm.” Celezon almost frowned but stopped himself. He let go of Rita Macklin’s arm.
“What was this about?” Rita asked Devereaux.
“His name is Colonel Ready,” Devereaux said in his flat, distant voice. “He met me at the train station. I was coming to meet you. He said you were going to be here. I had to come.”
“He told me you were here,” she said.
“Lies, Miss Macklin, but only little lies,” Ready said.
Devereaux considered the problem. The black would be armed, Ready would be armed. He would get rid of Rita and he would go with the two of them. They would expect him to be armed as well. Ready knew his tricks but Celezon did not. Celezon was big; it might be a matter of putting him between Ready and Devereaux’s drawn pistol.
Rita Macklin touched Devereaux’s sleeve. She saw the cold, dead look in his gray eyes, the old look, the look that had gone away.
“You fucking bastard,” she said to Colonel Ready.
“She called me a fucking bastard many times,” said Celezon.
“That’s what we are, Celezon,” Ready said, smiling at Rita. The white scar made the smile seem hideous and macabre, as though a corpse grinned at her.
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know,” Devereaux said.
“I want to talk to both of you, just talk to you,” Ready said. “Celezon, why don’t you go to the shops and buy some souvenirs for your whores in St. Michel?”
Celezon shivered. It was cold in this climate but they had come here before, and he had dressed warmly in a black coat. He did not understand why people lived in such cold places. Celezon said, “And the whores of Madeleine.”
“Yes, both cities,” he agreed.
“And they must be souvenirs of quality,” continued Celezon. “All of my whores are ladies of the highest quality.”
For a moment, the two men smiled at each other, sharing a secret. Then Celezon made a mocking salute that was part French Army, part wave, and slipped away.
The three of them sat at a square-top Formica table in a large café across from the lakeshore park. It was nearly empty. Ready ordered an expensive écossais—Scotch—and Rita ordered Campari and soda. Devereaux sat between them. He did not drink. He waited and stared at Ready all the time.
“I need you for a job. It’s a little job. I need both of you.”
Rita didn’t speak. She had retreated into the same coldness she saw in Devereaux’s eyes on the dock.
“You can have me,” Devereaux said. “For a little job.”
“That’s not good enough,” Ready said and he sipped his whisky.
“It will have to be.”
“This isn’t an English movie, Devereaux. You intend to kill me and kill Celezon as soon as you can separate Rita from us. I understand. I understand the idea and I understand you. But it isn’t going to be that way.” Ready’s smiles and grins were gone; his voice was brittle and edgy.
“How is it going to be?” Quietly.
“That’s better.” Ready paused. “There is an island in the Caribbean called St. Michel. It is southeast of Haiti and there is not much to recommend it. The French gave it up after the war. There were bauxite mines and copper but they’re played out. The people are played out as well. It’s not much, but it’s home.”
“And what are you to St. Michel?”
“I am the chief of the army. Didn’t you hear Celezon call me ‘mon colonel’? I have a nice uniform and a nice salary.”
“And then there is the money you can steal,” said Devereaux.
“Yes. It is amazing how even in a poor country, there is money worth stealing.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Not you, Devereaux. Both of you. I have to have your leverage.”
“She isn’t involved.”
Ready looked at Rita Macklin and he smiled for a moment because the thought of her hatred excited him.
“I never thought he would give up the Section,” Ready said to her.
Rita did not speak.
“It was love, wasn’t it? He came to me six years ago and he wanted to run a check on your dead brother. To see if he was clean. He didn’t trust Hanley in the Section to tell him the truth. He owes me for that. I remembered that, I put it away up here.” He tapped his forehead again. “I thought he must have loved you to expose himself like that. It was simple once I figured that out.”
“You fucking bastard,” she said in a soft voice that might have been a prayer or a secret.
“St. Michel’s thirtieth anniversary of independence is next week. Rita Macklin, the freelance American journalist, will help cover the festivities,” said Colonel Ready. “I have the visas, the ticket on the flight to Guadeloupe from Paris, the transfer to St. Michel. I have a reservation for you in our best hotel.”
“Nobody is going anywhere,” said Devereaux.
“Why don’t you have a drink?”
Devereaux said nothing.
“You always drank. I thought you drank too much. But I suppose that’s because you’re in love now, is that it?” Ready’s voice dripped with mockery.
Rita Macklin sat very still. Her face was white. She breathed softly, consciously trying not to make a sound. He knew that she breathed that way when she awoke some nights in the darkness, lying next to him in bed. He would lie silently next to her, sleeping like a cat, his eyes closed and hands open and his defense uncoiled. He had learned to sleep like that next to her over the years.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find out what side I’m on,” said Colonel Ready.
“What side do you want to be on?”
“The side that wins.”
“Is there a war?”
“There is always a war in a country like St. Michel. There are guerrillas in the hills because there are always such people. They are led by a man named Manet who is a Communist, I suppose, but it doesn’t really matter. And there is the matter of the Langley Company. They want to know who’s going to win as well.”
“And you’re going to tell them?”
“I will tell them if I have to. I want to be on the winning side. But what if Manet has the winning side? What if neither Langley nor Manet can win? Should I stay on my own side?”
“And you want me to go to St. Michel because no one knows me there.”
“Yes,” said Ready. “I am a little too visible. I need a spy. I need someone I can trust.”
“You can’t trust me,” Devereaux said.
“You’re wrong. You underestimate the situation,” Ready said, smiling at Rita again.
“Who is for Langley there?”
“I don’t know. There is a man there named Harry Francis. He is a comic spy, out of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. I can’t believe in him at all, he is so pathetic. Therefore, he might be very dangerous.”
“What was his name in the agency?” Devereaux was called November when he was an active agent. Harry Francis would be called something too, a code name, a clerk-created nickname.
“Hemingway.”
“That’s odd.”
“A joke, I suppose. Harry Francis knew the great man when Harry worked for Langley in Cuba, before the Bay of Pigs. Harry gave Langley some good information but Langley chose to ignore it. Langley cut him loose a few years ago. Harry Francis writes novels. Do you know them? No, I don’t think so. He hasn’t sold a thing for years. He is a pathetic drunk. I don’t trust that at all. I keep thinking that Harry might still be working for Langley.”
“Why?”
“Langley cut Howard Hunt away from the Company three times that I know of. He wrote books, too, little spy novels. Except I know he never left the Company, even when he was supposed to be working for Nixon and his gang.”
“So there’s Manet and there’s Harry Francis.”
“And there are other elements. A good agent can discover them. A good agent with a good cover. And all the while, Rita Macklin will be safe with me in the capital, covering our poor little thirtieth Independence Day celebration for her magazines and newspapers.”
“No. Not her, Ready.”
“Yes. Her.” He looked at her as though she belonged to him. “Her because I told her about her brother, though it was you who asked. Her because I gave you two hundred thousand Swiss francs and it’s for both of you. Her because she led me to you.”
“Damn you,” she said to him but her voice was as dull as night.
“I might kill you instead,” Devereaux said. “There’s the chance that I could do that.”
“It’s a possibility. Except that there are papers filed in a certain place. They are about November and where he lives and what he looks like. They would be useful to Langley. I’m surprised Langley was willing to accept your death. The R Section counts on clumsiness from its competitors.”
Devereaux waited.
“And the wet contract. From KGB. To kill the agent called November. Canceled fourteen months ago because November was dead.”
“If you know all that, you still work for Langley. If you know all that, they know it, too,” Devereaux said. “Then there’s no reason not to kill you.”
“I can think. I don’t need Langley’s computers,” Ready said with annoyance. “It had to be a contract against you. That’s why you ‘died’ in Zurich. Langley was after you in Ireland nine years ago but that’s past. It had to be KGB. Besides, if I worked now for Langley, I wouldn’t need you.”
He decided then. “You can have me. You don’t need her.”
“Your word on it?” said Ready, starting to smile again. “Come on, Devereaux. We’re agents, not boy scouts.”
“Not her,” he said and he realized Ready was backing him into a corner.
“It is all written down, about you, about her, all my guesses and my calculations, most of which turned out to be correct. Langley will get the file if I am killed.”
“And if you aren’t killed?”
“You will get the file.”
“There’s never an end to blackmail.”
“Yes there is. I want one specific job. I want to know what side I am on. Then I never want to see you again, either of you. But first I need to know which side to be on.”
“And who can tell me?”
“I don’t know. But ‘Hemingway’ has a notebook and I want it. I know it exists but I don’t know how to get it. I tortured him once before but he’s tough. I don’t think I would get it before I killed him. He drinks too much. If he were in good shape, I could probably torture him until he couldn’t stand the pain. But I can’t take the chance.”
“What’s in the notebook?”
“Secrets, I think. I don’t know. I’ve heard about Hemingway’s notebook for years.”
“What can one old man know?”
“What did the old priest know in Florida that was worth it to you six years ago?”
Ready stared suddenly at Rita and she trembled because he looked insane.
“What would you do with the secrets?” Devereaux said. His voice was without inflection and was very gentle.
Colonel Ready stared at Rita Macklin before he spoke. He felt her hatred shine like warmth on his face. He felt a stirring between his legs. She would not break her stare in return.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ready said to Devereaux. “You’ll do the job for me to get me on the right side. Everyone talks about Harry’s notebook. Even Harry. Except he keeps calling himself Hemingway. I think Harry is a little crazy, which you might expect after all those years in the trade. The notebook might be nothing more substantial than the Holy Grail but that doesn’t stop everyone from looking for it. The notebook is power because knowledge is power.”
“If Harry is on the island, you have all his knowledge now,” Devereaux said.
“Harry is an old man and he drinks too much. He can’t take too much hurt. If I torture him again he might die out of stubbornness and then he’d be worthless, wouldn’t he? I have Harry and no notebook and that’s a bad deal and it doesn’t mean very much. But if I have a notebook, then I really don’t need Harry anymore.”
“And you can use it,” Devereaux said. “How will you use it?”
“That’s my business,” Ready said. “You don’t need to know that.”
“I won’t do it,” Devereaux said.
Ready looked at him. “Yes. For your own sake. You like to be free of the trade, don’t you? I know you, Devereaux. You slipped the traces and slipped both sides and your file is closed. But if it gets opened again with the kind of information I could plant at Langley, the Big Red Machine would have to acknowledge they had made a mistake about you, that you weren’t really dead. November is dead and it doesn’t matter who November is. The name is used once and never again. You’re November dead and I can make November alive and you know I can. So you’ll work for me, just a little job. I’ve tried my best with Harry, but I have a country to run.” He smiled. “I can’t spend all my time trying to find something that might not even exist.”
“And if it doesn’t exist?”
“Then you’ll have to prove that to me. The burden is on you. It isn’t fair, I know that, but it’s the way I have to operate.”
“Just me.”
“No. I want leverage. You could be dangerous in the old days, Devereaux. You’re slower now but so am I. And I’ll keep Rita near me just in case you want to change the rules of the game in the middle. I won’t harm her. In a little while, this will all be over for both of you.”
“No,” he said.
“What do you say, Rita?” Colonel Ready touched her hand and it was cold. “For his sake. For your sake.” He looked at Devereaux. “You put this scam together and you have to see it through. You kill me now and you will be hunted again, believe me.”
“What do you want me to do?” Devereaux said and Rita stared at him and did not believe his words.
“I am watched going in and coming out. I’ll leave at noon. The next direct flight connects through Paris and Guadeloupe to St. Michel at noon each day. I will be on the plane Wednesday. Miss Macklin will follow on Thursday. And you will follow on Friday.”
“No,” Devereaux said. “I don’t know St. Michel, but there are too many coincidental passages to your… island… from the same European port. She can follow in two days but not from Paris.”
“There’s a roundabout flight using Frankfurt to Miami—”
“Yes. And in four days, I’ll leave from London.”
Ready smiled. “You see, you always remember how to cover your trail. Instinct.”
“I don’t want to leave footprints,” Devereaux said in the same soft and uninflected voice.
And Rita had stared at Devereaux as he made the plan with Colonel Ready and her face grew very pale and when she spoke at last, her voice sounded detached: “Kill him, Dev. Just kill him now.”
Devereaux looked at her. His eyes were flat, without emotion. Ready looked at him and saw what the look in his eyes meant and felt contempt for Devereaux. He got up from the table and dropped a fat envelope of documents. “Visas,” said Colonel Ready. “Press credentials. I expect you in two days, Miss Macklin. I know I won’t be disappointed. Will I?”
“No,” said Devereaux.
“There will be a reception in the palace. You can meet the president of St. Michel. His name is Claude-Eduard. And his charming sister. Keep away from the president, Rita, especially in dark rooms—he’s reputed to have a three-foot cock.”
Rita said, “Kill him now.” Her voice was dead. “It doesn’t matter. We can get away. We did it before. We can get away from him. If you won’t kill him, give me the gun, I’ll kill him. I know you brought a gun. I’ll kill him and I’ll run and it’ll give you time.”
But Devereaux only stared at the redheaded man and felt the impotence of the pistol in his belt.
“Damn you,” Rita said. She was crying. “Kill him now.”