Bill Granger - The November Man

VOICE: I don’t care. I’m not in the trade. (Pause.) There is no November.

HANLEY: That’s just it. No November. There are no spies. I think I can tell you. I need to tell you. And did you know that your duplicate November is on his way to Moscow?

(Silence for five seconds.)

HANLEY: Hello?

VOICE: I’m not in the trade, Hanley. That was our agreement. I don’t exist. November is some man running away from a wet contract.

HANLEY: A wet contract from Moscow. And now the man you tagged November is running right into the arms of the Opposition. Why is that?

VOICE: I don’t care. Don’t call me anymore.

(Broken connection.)

February 23, time: 1:13 A.M. Electronic count indicates the same country, city, and telephone number as previous conversation.

HANLEY: Hello?

VOICE: I’m not interested in talking to you.

HANLEY: Listen. For just one minute. I’ve got to tell someone this, I’ve got to talk it out to someone who understands. Who understands what’s going on in Section. Someone who isn’t in Section anymore.

VOICE: Are you drunk, Hanley? Has the one-martini lunch finally gotten out of control after all these years?

HANLEY: (garbled) has to be at the highest levels. Do you understand?

VOICE: I am not in the trade. That was our agreement.

(Garbled)

HANLEY: The pills. I stopped taking them and I don’t feel as bad. Are the pills… something wrong? I sleep all the time and then I wake up and I can’t sleep. I never knew there was so much traffic, all day and night, you can’t sleep. Where are all those people going?

VOICE: Home. You go home, too.

HANLEY: I am home.

VOICE: Then have a drink and go to sleep.

HANLEY: My lunch. They are going to tear down the place on Fourteenth Street. I went there every day of my life. A martini straight up and a cheeseburger with raw onion. One martini. I knew all the people there. And Mr. Sianis said to me, “Mr. Hanley, I have to sell the place because they are going to put up a trade center.”

VOICE: Why are you calling me? Leave me alone. Everything is over.

HANLEY: Damnit. You never leave the service. You know that. You’re in for life. And I’ve told you that.

VOICE: November is going to Moscow. You said it. November does not exist.

HANLEY: (portion missing) the secret, the point of the thing, when it comes down to it, it might just be that simple.

VOICE: What are you talking about?

HANLEY: I read Somerset Maugham over and over. Ashenden. About the secret agent in World War I, he reminded me that you were in Lausanne and that you probably took the same ferry boats between France and Switzerland that he did. All those years ago. When it was accepted finally. The need for spies. Reilly. Maugham. The people in BritIntell—I thought about you when I read those stories. Because of the location. You took that ferry.

VOICE: Yes.

HANLEY: I am not insane. I am not going insane. I am tired and I have time to think about things. I mean, sanity is understanding where your feet are planted, isn’t it? But I’m off my feet, I don’t have perspective anymore.

VOICE: Seek professional help.

HANLEY: Sarcasm. You have to help—

VOICE:—no.

HANLEY: (interrupted) secret. I think of one thing and think of another. I had a nutcracker when I was a child and—

VOICE: Good-bye, Hanley.

HANLEY: Wait. There are no spies. That’s what it means. There are no spies at all. But that’s not true. That’s the one thing I realize now. That’s not true.

(Disconnect)

February 28, time: 10:13 A.M. (Incoming call; location uncertain.)

HANLEY: Hello? Hello?

LYDIA NEUMANN: This is Lydia Neumann, Hanley. You’re still ill. I wanted to see how you were. Can I get you anything? I’m worried about you and we need you in Section.

HANLEY: So we can pull our oars.

NEUMANN: (Laughter)

HANLEY: I need rest, that’s all I need.

NEUMANN: Should I come over?

HANLEY:…sleep at night. Traffic. Where are those people all rushing to?

NEUMANN: Have you seen a doctor? Not Thompson. Don’t use Thompson.

HANLEY: Thompson? He doesn’t know a damned thing. I understand his little game. Pills. I know all the secrets, you know, Mrs. Neumann. I know everything. You let me fool myself but you were onto the secret as well, weren’t you? This is a game in a computer and you’re the master of Tinkertoy. The mistress of Tinkertoy. So I’ll ask you: Where is my Nutcracker?

NEUMANN: Hanley? Hanley? Are you all right?

HANLEY: My Nutcracker. New Man knows, New Man (Neumann?) knows—

NEUMANN: Hanley, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

HANLEY: Spies, Neumann. I am talking about the whole business of spies. Of moles and sleepers and agents who come awake, of doubles and triples, of dogs who bark and dogs who bite, covert and overt, going into black and black bag operations, and the business of the trade. I am talking about goddamn bona fides and about software and I am telling you, I am going to get to the bottom of the whole damned business.

NEUMANN: (garbled)

HANLEY: Oh, you believe that. I know you do. There are no spies. But I have my spies and you have a bunch of circuits. I have the spies. There are no spies?

NEUMANN: Hanley, my God—

(Disconnect)

Three telephone calls, except the call from a woman asking Hanley to subscribe to the Washington Post.

Yackley’s frown was deep and sincere. His skin was burned brown by January’s sun in St. Maarten; his eyes were blue and quite empty. But the frown spoke for his thoughts.

The room was lit by a single green-shaded banker’s lamp. The soft light framed the two photographs on his desk. His wife smiled crookedly at the photographer; his daughter smiled at Daddy. If they only understood all the secrets he had and was privy to. If they only could understand the nasty business that had to be done.

There are no spies.

Hanley told Devereaux that. And he told Devereaux about Colonel Ready, tagged as November, now making his way to Moscow to try to arrange a defection. A damned mess, all of it. And what was the real November going to do now? Except plot with Hanley.

There are no spies. And the New Man knows.

Yackley considered the matter for a moment. He knew exactly what he was going to do; he was working up an argument in conscience to sanctify it. But it had to be done in any case, even if it was going to be dirty.

Alexa was quite beautiful in the way of a certain kind of young Russian woman. Her eyes were coal-dark and deep and it was difficult to describe their color. Her eyes were also set sharply in the paleness of her strong features. Despite the generous width of her mouth and her very high cheekbones that seemed to stretch her skin, despite her coal-black hair that severely defined the edges of her pale features, her eyes held you. Her merest glance compelled you to stare at her, at her eyes, in total fascination.

Her eyes were her only drawback, from a professional point of view.

She might be able to change the color of her hair or disguise her slender figure by flattening her full breasts or by stooping to seem shorter or older than she was. But she could never disguise those eyes.

Alexa turned from the bar in the warm green room on the third deck of the Finlandia and gazed across the room at the man she was going to kill.

The trouble with Alexa’s usefulness as an intelligence agent for the Committee for State Security was that she was very good at those assignments that called for action—immediate, brutal, violent—and very bad at those assignments that called for mere intelligence gathering.