Bill Granger - The November Man

Gorki treated her so. But what choice did she have now. To perform the assignment, she would die; to not do the job, she would betray her commission. And die as well.

She was strong; she had power because she was beautiful and men desired her. Also, because she controlled herself and those around her. She was aware of everything around her and she was cunning and intelligent.

And Gorki was so much more.

Power was the aphrodisiac.

He had commanded her as easily as a child commands its doll.

Now he commanded her death.

The moment she killed November, she was dead.

His death carried her own inside him.

She blinked. Her eyes had made tears and that had made her eyes irresistible.

She sat in the darkness, under bare trees, beneath stars. She sat in a rented car with a borrowed pistol on her lap. She sat very alone and still. Her shoulders ached. Beyond those yellow-lighted windows were homes of strangers where strangers were warm, familiar with each other, at some sort of peace, even for a moment. Alexa let tears fall on her perfect, taut cheeks because she was so cold and alone.

And then he was there.

On the steps of the house she had watched.

She put her hand on the pistol. Her long fingers crept over case, housing, trigger guard, trigger—they were like snakes creeping over stones. She held her breath—not that he could hear her.

November.

He was bright against the darkness because of the street lamp. His jacket was light blue, his sweater was black. He wore tan trousers.

He was a large man and he paused at the curb to look around him. He stared right into the darkness where she was hidden. It didn’t matter; he didn’t see her.

It was important to take care of him away from the house of spies where he had spent Sunday afternoon.

His image flashed beneath the street lamp.

Tall, long legs, a certain strength in the way he walked. It was the way a lion stalks in the veld.

She blinked her eyes to blink away the tears. She was aware her life was coming to an end very soon, even as his life was ending.

She pushed the car into “drive” and let it slide forward into the street. She turned toward Wisconsin Avenue at the end of the street.

She came abreast of him.

Was he a hundred feet away? It would not be difficult.

She rolled down the window.

Because Alexa was careful, she wanted all the advantages. Let him step toward her on this quiet street.

“Can you help me?”

So small a voice. Her mother said she was given the gift of a small voice in a beautiful face. A strong woman’s deception.

“Can you help me, please? I am lost, I think.”

He stopped. Turned.

Stared at her.

She brought the pistol up beneath the window.

And he smiled at her.

What man would not smile at a beautiful woman in distress?

From that moment, doubt ceased. There was no thought of Gorki. She must obey because obedience was the way taught to a courier in the Resolutions Committee.

Take a step toward me.

And another.

She spoke to the target without words.

It will be very easy for you, dear one. She crooned to the target in her mind.

She had once stroked poor Tony’s hair. His face was between her thighs and he pleased her and she thought to blow his head off in that moment. Poor Tony.

But he did not move, the one on the sidewalk.

She brought the pistol up and rested it on the sill of the window.

He was half turned toward her now, almost in profile.

“Be careful, Alexa,” he said. In very soft English. “They want to kill you as well. When you kill me.”

The English words had no emotion but a sort of wonder to them.

Her hand trembled. The pistol shook.

“Please,” she said. In English.

What did she want to say?

She had to kill him.

“Please.”

But he was gone, between the buildings opposite, into absolute darkness beneath the stars. The street was empty.

She was crying.

He knew. He knew her, knew the danger she had felt. It was like another man knowing your secret belief that you were going to die soon. It confirmed everything.

And all her courage was gone.

Devereaux grinned when he saw the sign on the door.

But he removed the pistol from his belt anyway. He unlocked the safety—he detested automatics but it was the only reliable piece he could acquire quickly on the hot market—and he went to the door.

On the knob, a Do Not Disturb sign printed in four languages—presumably for the benefit of the staff, rather than the room resident—hung like a signal flag.

It was Devereaux’s room.

He had not hung out any sign at all.

He turned the key and opened the door with a slight kick from his right foot. It is exactly the way it is taught in all the training classes. The pistol surveys the room from right to left as the door swings inward.

Except it was on a chain and the chain held.

“Who is it?”

Devereaux did not put the pistol away but he held it loosely at his side. “Come on,” he said.

Denisov opened the door. His shirt was open, revealing an expanse of chest and curly black hairs. A bottle of vodka and a small ice bucket sat on the sideboard.

“Make yourself at home,” Devereaux said. He entered the room.

“I didn’t want you to shoot me if I fell asleep,” Denisov said in his heavy accent. He was in good humor.

“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“The work was satisfactory.” He frowned. “As far as it went. You were right about a few things. Do you know the woman is here? Is waiting to kill you?”

Devereaux took off his corduroy jacket and threw it on one of the double beds. He went to the window and looked out at the winking red lights set in the obelisk of the Washington Monument. The lights looked like eyes and the Monument resembled—at night—a hooded Klansman.

He had his back to Denisov and he replaced his pistol in his belt.

Denisov smiled. “But you can see me in the glass, is that it?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Do not trust too much.”

“No. That wouldn’t do for either of us.”

“The woman is here.”

“I know.”

“You know this? You have seen her?”

“At least three times. I saw her tonight. I think she was finally going to kill me. She’s very confused.” He said it mildly. “I told her to be careful; I said they wanted her dead.”

“Then you did nothing?”

“She caught me the first time. In the morning. Yesterday morning. She was in a car and I was careless. I guess I have learned to retire from the old trade too well.” He turned back to face Denisov. “Smirnoff vodka?”

“Actually, I had great trouble. I ask for Russian vodka. I ask for Polish vodka even. The man in the store said he refused to carry Communist vodka. As though vodka had a political party. He says I have an accent and he accused me of being a goddamn Russian spy.”

“But you are.”

“Not anymore. Thanks to you.” He paused again. “I was in Berlin.”

“You saw Griegel. How is Griegel?”

“As boring as ever. He said there is a control inside Moscow Center who wants to defect. Do you know who it is?”

“Gorki,” Devereaux said.

Denisov frowned. He didn’t like this at all. He was tired as well. The Concorde from London had utterly exhausted him. “Perhaps I should not ask you questions. Perhaps you know all the answers.”

“Perhaps,” Devereaux said.

Denisov poured some vodka into a water glass. Devereaux removed the Saran Wrap seal over a second glass, sniffed it, and dropped in some ice. He took the bottle from Denisov. They sat down. The hotel room was like a thousand others strung around the world and they were like the thousand others who hung their trousers on hangers and washed their shirts in the basin and set chairs against the door at night and always left a light burning and kept the television set on to an empty channel to produce a certain, soothing amount of “white noise.” The white noise protected against eavesdropping and the chair on the door against surprises.