Bill Granger - The November Man

And Devereaux followed. They both knew the way to play this particular game.

Denisov sat in a corner of the dark, dirty, and quite somber public house with a pint of Bass ale before him and a copy of the Wall Street Journal ’s European edition. There was a little time to kill before Devereaux joined him. He was a large, lethargic man, accustomed to waiting.

His eyes followed the lists of the stocks, up and down, searching for the acronyms of his holdings.

Devereaux sat down with a large glass of vodka, chilled with ice. The English had grown more relaxed about ice in the last few years; they had given it away in public houses with less reluctance and less sense that they were surrendering the Crown Jewels.

Denisov did not look up from the paper. “You seem unchanged by the years,” he said in the voice that still contained a stubborn, thick accent. He spoke English very well because he loved the language (which is why he had loved the merry cynicism of Gilbert); but accent cannot always be lost, perhaps as a reminder to the speaker that he is still a stranger in a strange world.

“It’s old home week talk now?” Devereaux said.

Denisov sighed. Tribune stock—listed Trbn—was up 1½. He folded the paper shut. “You have no time for sentiment. For cheers? For l’chaim ?” Denisov smiled, lifted his glass, nodded, and sipped.

Devereaux watched him. He was the careful agent now, not the careless man who had wandered through his days in Lausanne. He had been so careless because he had believed in his own myth, that he could shake the traces of the old trade.

He thought now all the time about that unfinished (perhaps unspoken) conversation he would have with Rita Macklin someday, if he survived this time.

“You are too serious,” Denisov said. “Lighten yourself.”

“Lighten up,” Devereaux corrected.

“Yes,” Denisov said. “Your message was insistent.”

“I would not have interfered with your life unless I had to,” Devereaux said. Denisov did not understand that this was going to be a serious matter after all.

“Of course.” He said it with irony. “I thought you wanted my company.”

“Two men are killed in Lausanne. The day before they are killed, they go to a place—a brasserie—and they terrorize a young Swiss girl with a stupid dialogue about how they are looking for me.”

“I see. The girl—is she pretty?”

“She’s young, which is better,” Devereaux said.

Denisov stared at him without expression for a moment and then put a smile on his face. On purpose. He was an amiable bear, like the trained bear in the Soviet circus; and yet, a bear is a bear, with teeth and claws and strength and the instincts to kill when killing is necessary.

“So. These men.” Denisov stared at his beer. “Do you owe them money? Perhaps they are brothers of the young girl and they wish her to stop seeing you. I think that you must be careful about who you go to bed with when you are in a foreign country.” He smiled. “There are different customs.”

“Yes. You’d know about that. The widow in California.”

“I have so much to thank you for,” Denisov said. The edge was bared. It was steel and cold and it killed. Denisov stared at Devereaux.

They had been spies against each other. And one day, when there was no other way, Devereaux had “defected” Denisov. Denisov had been trapped in America because Devereaux had made it so. He had lived on his hatred of Devereaux for three years—before Devereaux came to him in his hidden lair in California and decided to use him. Devereaux had let him free because it suited him to do so after Denisov had been used.

Once, in a car in Zurich, he had the chance to kill Devereaux. And he had hesitated. Why had he hesitated? He still hated him but he saw there was no hatred on the other side. Devereaux did not hate; therefore, Denisov thought, he could only use. Denisov was in the arms trade now and he was a rich man and he pitied Devereaux, who could only use. And who had scruples, in an odd way.

“So tell me about these men if you have to,” Denisov said, shaking out of his thoughts.

“They go to my apartment the following day. They are killed there.”

“By you.”

“By a woman. A woman who kills in the professional way. There is a picture of her.”

Captain Boll of the Swiss army had commissioned a drawing of the woman based on the description by the unfortunate young thug who had been hired to break a window in a building and lure the concierge out of it. He had been arraigned on various charges and he would go to prison for at least two years and he said the likeness was very good.

Denisov stared at the drawing for a moment.

There are some faces—even captured in an imprecise drawing—that are unforgettable.

He felt a strange stirring. He looked up. His face betrayed nothing. His hand framed the drawing on the table. Alexa.

“She might be beautiful,” Denisov said.

“Yes.”

“It is she who killed those men?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think she came to kill me instead.”

“I don’t understand this.”

Devereaux stared at the Russian in silence. Denisov was very good. The eyes hid everything. Denisov glanced again at the drawing. For a moment. But it was too long a time, Devereaux thought. And the hand on the table still framed the picture.

“Who is she?” Devereaux said.

“I don’t know.”

The silence shared the space between them.

“How are things?” Devereaux said.

“Well.”

“Business is booming.”

“Perhaps,” Denisov said.

“Perhaps you are too busy.”

“No.” Carefully. “Not too busy.” And his hand on the table around the drawing was still.

“I want to know about her—”

“You are the agent, not I.”

“You’re close to the trade,” Devereaux said. “To old sources and new ones.”

“Perhaps.”

“I set you up. With Krueger.”

“I am so grateful.”

“I don’t expect to pay in gratitude,” Devereaux said.

“You have your sources, comrade,” Denisov said. “Why do I become involved?”

Devereaux said, “I defected you in Florida because there was no choice. And I sprung you from your golden prison in California because I had to use you. You’re free, Denisov, freer than you ever were in the old trade.” He paused, the eyes gray and level and even mocking: “I need to know about her. About two other men. And I need to know about a nutcracker.”

This was too much. Denisov started. His eyes widened. He knew too much to hide it this time. It was the last word he had expected the other man to utter.

And then Denisov smiled, a strange and dominating smile that broke in waves across the cold harsh presence of the other man.

“Nutcracker involves you?”

Devereaux stared at Denisov for a long time. “A man I once knew called me twice in Lausanne. Before these things happened. He babbled to me and I have been trying to remember the things he said. He talked about old spies and fictional spies and he sounded deranged.”

“And he told you something about Nutcracker.”

“He said he had a nutcracker when he was a child. It was such a strange thing to say. Even in the context. I thought about it then and now. I wanted to see what you knew. And you know, don’t you, Russian?”

“I heard a rumor. In London three weeks ago. You know we have our gossips in the arms trade. Something is up. But no one knows what it is.”

“But Nutcracker. It means something?”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“What moves you, Russian?”

But Denisov saw. He smiled and it was genuine. “You are outside, are you not? That is what this is about. You are outside and you cannot go back to R Section and ask them for help. Is that it? I feel so terrible for you, my friend. It is bad for you, is it not?” The smile was very good and wide and open. “Is someone to kill you and you cannot save yourself?” The syntax was breaking down. “I think it would be terrible to make your woman weep for you. But then, these things must happen.”