Bill Granger - The November Man

“I don’t know,” Devereaux said. “I’m not a shrink.”

“They were going to kill me,” Hanley said with wonder. “The first day at St. Catherine’s, that bastard Goddard sprayed me. With Mace. He sprayed me in the goddamn face. That dirty son-of-a-bitch.”

“You can get him later,” Devereaux said. “Why did you write this? Why did you write Nutcracker and then list all our own agents? And my name?”

Hanley stared at the paper as though he had never seen it before. And then there was recognition.

“I was home. I was on fire all the time and so tired. I couldn’t think what had happened to Nutcracker. It existed in Tinkertoy and I had no access to it. But if I went to Mrs. Neumann, what if it turned out that she was part of this… this thing that was happening in Section. She was the computer wizard. Maybe she wanted to destroy Nutcracker before it started. Hardware, she’s in hardware. Software is old-fashioned. ‘There are no spies.’ It kept going around and around in my head. Everyone was against me. I went to Yackley a second time and then I thought that maybe Yackley was part of whatever it was that was going on.”

“There is no file above you, is there?”

“My level, you mean? Yes. The Security file, the level of the National Security Adviser. And the President’s file.”

Devereaux said, “Why did you list the names of your own agents?”

“Because we had lost men and I got the idea—I got the idea that the Opposition was pulling a Nutcracker on me. On the Section. On our side. It just came to me like that. I thought I was crazy but there it was. It was logical. Maybe they—the other side—they were working against the Section. They could have access to my Nutcracker scenario and use it against me. Against the Section. They could let it go along and then, when the time was ready, turn it inside out.”

“You called me,” Devereaux said. His gray eyes shifted focus. He was remembering as much as he could. The room was as still as a confessional. “You said something about the highest levels. When you called me.”

“I was babbling.”

“But what were you babbling about?”

Hanley squinted, picked at the coverlet again and again. He sighed and tried to remember. It was so difficult to remember things. “I was out of my head most of the time. It was like being on fire.”

“Remember,” Devereaux said.

“The highest levels. The highest levels. It was like an itch inside my brain and I couldn’t reach it. That’s why I was writing down ideas. Like Nutcracker. That’s it. The highest levels. I couldn’t get through my computer to Nutcracker and that meant it was taken from me at the highest levels. But that didn’t make any sense.”

“Unless there is a mole,” Devereaux said.

“A mole in Section.” Hanley seemed to visibly collapse into the sheets. “A mole in Section.” The horror of it clouded his face. He closed his eyes and felt like weeping again. He had said it before as though in a dream. And now, there was no dream. When he opened his eyes, they were wet. He loved Section. He had given his life to Section as you give your life to a bride or a cause or anything you love. The director of operations had become defined over the years by his job: He was the puppetmaster and, yet, it made him a puppet himself. And now the thought: There was a mole in Section and it would all come down and the play would be over, the stage cleared.

“Who committed you?” Devereaux said.

“Yackley.”

“And supported him?”

“Richfield.”

“And visited you at St. Catherine’s?”

“Mrs. Neumann.”

“Who else?”

“Perry Weinstein.”

“Did Yackley ever come?”

“No.”

“Yackley,” Devereaux said, turning the name over in thought. “Yackley tapped your phone. Yackley knew you had called me. So Yackley must have sent the chasers after me.”

“Yackley,” Hanley said. “Are you sure?”

“In a little while,” Devereaux said. “I need some things from you. Promises. And some money. Oh, and four thousand shares of stock.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Expenses,” Devereaux said. He tried a smile. “The only serious thing ever worth talking about to an employer.”

“But you’re not an employee anymore, Devereaux,” Hanley said. He said it very softly.

“Yes. That’s what I prefer.” He listened to himself as if he might be detecting a lie. But then, that’s what words were for. “I might come back. On active duty roster. But let everyone know so there are no more mistakes, no more independent contracts against me from the other side.”

“Why?”

“Protection. If I come back, then Section is behind me.” He said the words without any feeling in them.

He had given up his trade because he did not love it anymore and because he loved Rita Macklin. He had thought all along what he could say to her if he went back into the trade, back into the cold. The conversation in mind never had a conclusion but now, in a little while, it would have to be played out for real.

“I was set, I was anonymous, I was asleep. Only three people knew in Section—you, Mrs. Neumann, Yackley. And then one day, a Soviet courier kills Colonel Ready and it is neat and finished. Except someone told the Opposition they had killed the wrong man. That the real November was alive in Lausanne. So they sent a hitter down and two other hitters and pretty soon, it was like a comic opera. Every move that everyone made was orchestrated; everyone knew everything about everyone else. They couldn’t have such good information unless it came from us. Came from you.”

“I’m not a traitor—”

“I came back to kill you, Hanley,” Devereaux said.

They let the silence support the words.

“You have to carry me on the books,” Devereaux began again.

“But you won’t come back.”

“No. Not in the way you think. That’s the way it has to be. I need my bona fides back. The badge and the gun.” Said with bitterness. “You said you can never quit.”

Hanley closed his eyes. He was weak but without pain. It was not an unpleasant feeling.

“I was so tired. At the end. Maybe I did have a breakdown. It was hopeless. If I went to the security adviser, what could I tell him but the raving suspicions of a paranoid? And if I did nothing, the Section was finished.”

“The Section may be finished in any case.”

“I gave my life to the Section.”

“You nearly did.”

“Who was it? Who is the mole?”

“In a little while,” Devereaux said. “Mrs. Neumann was arrested at two. Right in the Department of Agriculture building. She must have penetrated Nutcracker. It must be very close, whatever it is.”

“My own plan turned against me. But how are they going to do it? And why did you trust Mrs. Neumann?”

“Because I had to.”

“You put her at risk.”

“Yes.”

“She’s a woman.”

And Devereaux smiled at that. “Are you a male chauvinist then?”

“That woman saved my life.”

“Be quiet. She’s in Section. What do you think they’re going to do with her? Execute her? They took her to Fort Meade.”

“My God, I can’t stop whatever it is that is happening because I don’t know what is happening. And no one knows.”

“So think about it.”

“I can’t. I’m too tired.”

“You were pushed about agents. Too many agents. The talk in Europe is about a major Soviet coming out. It’s too much talk, too open. Gorki in Resolutions Committee—Denisov’s old boss. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why?”

“Because everything is made so easy. Everyone knows everything about everyone else. ‘There are no spies.’ Who told you that?”