Bill Granger - The November Man

“It’s too late for that,” Devereaux said. “What can you do for him?”

“What did they do to him, is more like it?”

“It was a mental institution—”

“A goddamn loony bin? You took this wretch out of a nut house? Well, you’re not so far gone after all, you grave-robbing son of a bitch. Good for you.”

Margot Kieker blanched but this wasn’t the worst she had seen this day. She stood by her great-uncle, on the other side of the table, holding his hand because she didn’t know what to do with her own hands. She was so amazed with herself—with her calm, with her actions—that she felt in a perpetual state of shock.

“Who’s this? Your moll?”

“His niece.”

“Niece my foot. I see Congressmen with their nieces prowling the joints on M Street. Those are nieces. This looks like a girl to me.” He had such an odd manner of speech—as though he had learned to talk by reading old books—and the cause was precisely that: He had been nearly dumb until he was ten because he could not see very well and no one in that village in Wales understood it. He had taught himself to read by closing one eye and reading with the other.

Devereaux said, “There isn’t much time.”

“What? For him? He’ll make it by the look of him. Just needs some beef. Heartbeat’s slow but regular, pulse is—But then, why am I explaining this to you? I’m the goddamn doctor. If I say something, it’s so.”

Devereaux seemed to ignore the tone of voice, the glowering face, the posturing and theatrical gestures. He went to the window and looked out of the examining room at the street. “Bring him around,” Devereaux said.

“What is this about?”

“Do you have a medical directory?”

The book listed surgeons in Washington, D.C., and environs and their specialities.

Devereaux found the name he was looking for. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he said.

“Where’s your shirt, man?”

“It’s a long story.”

“And you don’t have time to tell it.”

Devereaux buttoned the black coat over his collarless clerical shirt. He had no more time to waste with Quarles. Quarles owed him because of his own sense of debt; Devereaux would not have felt the same way. But if Quarles owed him, then let Quarles satisfy his conscience by paying the debt.

Alexa saw the man in the house on P Street. He was at the window. Alexa stood across the street and felt for the pistol in her pocket.

She thought she would shoot the man in the window. Then she would wait six more hours to see what the reaction would be when she called the number in New York.

Action was better than worry, she thought. If this was a trap, it would not matter. And if this was a mistake—well, then, she was being condemned for some mistake she could not even understand.

She drew the pistol out of her coat pocket and unsnapped the safety and drew the target in line.

And felt the muzzle on her neck.

“Don’t even turn.”

Said in bad Russian. But she understood.

He reached for her pistol and took it from her cold hand and pushed her ahead of him across the street and into the house.

There were three men. It was as she imagined it would be. She felt something like relief. She had been on a tightrope for so long. At least, this was the end.

The first man said it was necessary to handcuff her. For reasons of security. He said it as an explanation, which comforted her. He spoke fluent Russian but he was obviously not a Russian.

They cuffed her hands in front of her. The cuffs were attached by very thick and very heavy links of metal.

They searched her.

One of the men derived some pleasure from this. They removed her underpants and explored her body. They wanted to humiliate her; she understood that; she understood the techniques, all of them. It was preliminary to what would follow.

She hoped death would be easy. She had never dwelt on inflicting pain for its own sake or for her pleasure. She killed because she was a soldier in a war and that was what she was supposed to do.

Until the matter of the second November.

It had been a trap, all of it, and she had waited for the trap to be sprung on her with the timid courage of an animal that understands its impending doom.

They told her to sit down at last in a straight chair next to a wooden table in a room at the back of the house. One of the men went out. The second man sat at the table. The third man went to the window and looked out.

The first man—he was stocky, with rigid blue eyes and very blond hair—said, “We are United States agents.”

“CIA,” she said.

“Perhaps,” the blond man said.

That confused her. She opened her eyes very wide and he seemed to stare straight into her, as though she had no secrets and no defenses. She felt the cuffs on her wrists. She was strong and she felt outraged—despite her training, despite her understanding, the search had touched an outrage in her—and she pressed her lips together very tightly. She had no intention of resistance, except in that moment of outrage. She had seen resistance shown by other prisoners and how that resistance was gradually broken down.

“My name is Ivers,” the blond man said. “But how much do you know of this already?”

Again, she felt disoriented. She blinked and stared at him and tried to understand. She spoke in English now:

“I want to tell you what you want to know. I know that I am trapped in this. I have no way out. I realize all of this and I want to cooperate with you. My government has… abandoned me. I do not understand. But I do not want pain.”

The one at the window said, “She doesn’t want pain. You hear that?”

“I heard that,” said Ivers. It seemed to give him pleasure to think about that. He said to the one at the window, “Why don’t you go out and get some sandwiches. Some coffee and sandwiches.”

“Oh,” said the one at the window. “I get it.”

Alexa stared at Ivers.

“All right,” he said. The second one went out the door. “What do you know about Nutcracker?” It was what he had been told to say. Ivers was the fixer, the errand boy. He understood his status and it didn’t bother him. No one else knew how important he was. Or who he reported to.

She stared at him without speaking. It was the wrong response. He got up from the chair and came around the table slowly. He hit her on the face. He hit her five times. The blows were open handed and his hands were large and when they cracked her skin, the pain filled her head and clouded her vision. When the blows were done, the pain burned across her skin and filled her thoughts. She was crying but it was not self-pity; it was because of the pain. The tears came involuntarily.

“All right,” Ivers said. He went back to his chair and sat down. “What do you know about Nutcracker, and who else was involved? Why didn’t you do your contract, Alexa?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Really? You don’t really understand me? Dear, this is not a game. We have a loose cannon out there and it’s up to you to help us haul it in.”

“Please. Mr. Ivers. I will tell you. Please, I will tell you everything. I can tell you about the business in Finland five years ago, I can—”

“I’m not interested in ancient history. I want to know about November. Are you two in this?”

She felt she was sitting in the company of a madman.

“You didn’t take out November. You were supposed to take out November. You had chances. Was he part of the deal?”

“I was to resolve him. Yes. But I did not resolve him because I saw this was a trap. If I resolve him, then I am trapped worse than if I am a spy. Yes, I am an agent.”