The November Man (13 page)

D
evereaux had been professor of Asian Studies at Columbia University in New York City when he had been recruited to R Section in 1966. The lure had been Asia. He would go to the land of blood-red morning suns and the eternal fog that hung over the endless rice paddies; he would go and squat down in the rich delta earth with peasants with wizened faces and flat and serene eyes and attempt to understand that part of him that yearned for Asia as for a lover. He would be an intelligence agent, of course, but that was the means; it was never the end.

The means became the ends. Then the means obliterated the ends. The Asian earth was pounded by death from skies, the paddies turned red with blood, the jungle crawled over all—over civilization, over conqueror and defeated, over the living and the dead. Over Devereaux. He had gone to Asia to find his soul; instead, he had lost it there.

Devereaux had learned to think during the years in school in which he had earned his doctorate in history.
He had always known how to think on the level of the street: On the street, thought was part of instinct, part of conditioning. It is thought that makes the fighter choose the combination that breaks the defense of his opponent and lets him come inside and tear away the flailing arms and land hammerblows on face and chest and belly until the weight of the other cannot stand any more; those who don’t understand call it instinct, as though instinct were something that could not be developed as part of thought.

Devereaux knew the street and knew street thinking; he had just grown lazy in that regard in the idyllic months of Lausanne. He had allowed himself to be circled and nearly trapped.

The other part of thought was reason and the key was research. There was no other way around it. With a certain number of facts, a certain number of theories could be put together.

He had the facts now. Not all of them. It was not so difficult.

He sat in the glow of a single lamp in Hanley’s living room. The apartment was unchanged from the day nearly three weeks before when two men had come to take Mr. Hanley away. They were described by the doorman and by the super in the building.

No. No one had seen Mr. Hanley again since they came to take him away in the ambulance. Yes, he had been home a lot; he had been ill. Yes, Mr. Hanley continued to pay rent on his apartment; probably part of some government insurance plan. No. No one had come to visit Mr. Hanley or his apartment after that first day. They mentioned the name on the ambulance that had taken Hanley away. He took down the name and looked it up.

The answers were so prosaic that they were undoubtedly true. Devereaux had very little difficulty in gaining entry to Hanley’s flat. He had various badges and cards of authority; he had authorized papers to search the premises. Besides, people wanted someone to be in that flat again. It wasn’t natural for a flat to be empty all this time. It just wasn’t right.

Devereaux spent three hours in going through Hanley’s life, scattered in the apartment, to find a clue. Not to his disappearance. That would be solved in time. But to Devereaux’s part in it.

Once again he was the scholar on the trail of just a few facts. He was the student in study hall at the University of Chicago again. He was waiting as he pushed his way through graduate theses, through long-forgotten letters written by long-forgotten people, through books that had not been removed from the stacks for decades: He was waiting for first the one fact and then the second and then the third to fall from the pages in patterns and for the patterns to be seen at last in his mind.

Sometimes the patterns had come very late at night, in the room he lived in on Ellis Avenue down the street from the university complex. Sometimes they came in thoughts before sleep; sometimes, the pattern fell out with morning coffee. But the pattern was always apparent at last because Devereaux had prepared his brain to receive it.

There were insurance policies set out on Hanley’s desk. Hanley had a desk as plain as the desk in his office. His whole apartment was furnished with plain and useful furniture, without regard for elegance, grace, even beauty. Perhaps all the furniture had been left here by a
previous tenant; it had that feeling of anonymity, like the man himself.

The perfect spy.

Devereaux smiled. He read the policies and noted the name of the beneficiary: Margot Kieker.

The policies were laid on his desk because Hanley was thinking about death. In that sense, his telephone calls to Devereaux had been honest. And if he had not been in his apartment for three weeks—and had been off the job for weeks before that—then Hanley had not set the operation against him.

But who had? And for what purpose?

There was so little of Hanley in the apartment with pearl-gray walls and mournful tall windows and dark furniture and large bare rooms.

Save a single sheet of paper found in a spring-locked false panel beneath the last drawer on the right side of his desk. Devereaux would have missed it. He had shifted his weight in the brown leather chair at the desk and accidentally kicked at the drawer and the panel had dropped. After it dropped, he began to dismantle the desk and the other furniture in the room. He did the job as quietly as he could. He broke apart the desk and the bureau in the bedroom.

But there was only the single sheet of paper.

It was standard 16-pound typing paper, white, 8½ by 11 inches.

In ink, at the top, was written a single word in block letters, as though Hanley decided on the word as a title for an essay. (He could not be sure it was Hanley’s handwriting; he had never seen it.)

Below the single word were other words, lined up neatly flush left but in a slightly smaller handwriting:

And below that, in a handwriting that might have been added later:

The words fell out into his mind, formed patterns like falling leaves, fell wildly against the void of blackness. He waited for thought. He waited for the meaning of the words. He waited calmly in the light of a single lamp in the apartment. And after a time, he folded the paper, put it in his jacket. He turned out the lamp, closed the door, and left the building.

There were two approaches. They had been taught this at the training school in Maryland where he became an agent a long time before. The first approach is always best: To effect some sort of bluff of officialdom when approaching another for information. Most people are intimidated by those who appear to be officials or in charge, even if they are actually trained in the same business. No one wants unnecessary trouble.

The approach wasn’t going to work.

The young man in steel-rimmed glasses had a wise,
mocking look to him and Devereaux waited while he read through the bona fides Devereaux had purchased in London. He wasn’t going to buy any of it.

The ambulance garage was on Sixth Street N.E., in a shabby section of Washington just east of Union Station. The garage was made of brick. It was one story high and the few windows carried bars on them. The windows were darkened by soot. The entrance of the garage was barred by a large Doberman pinscher, who set up a racket when Devereaux entered.

The man in the steel-rimmed glasses was not alone. He wore a white uniform and his shirt was open enough to reveal most of a pale, muscular chest. He had the easy grace of an athlete as he walked across the oil-stained floor. Devereaux waited in front of the barking dog.

“Come on, Tiger,” the young man said at last, waiting until the last moment to restrain the dog. “Go on over there, Tiger.”

Devereaux said who he was and why he had come. The young man looked at the papers and looked at Devereaux and looked at the dog. The second man, larger and softer, was in a sort of office at the back of the garage. There were sixteen bays in the garage, four occupied by ambulances, three by private cars, and one by a brand-new black Cadillac hearse.

“For the ones you don’t get to the hospital,” Devereaux said.

The young man looked up, annoyed, turned, saw the point of the joke. He grinned without pleasure. “Yeah. Something like that. You don’t leave anyone in the place where he dies.”

Devereaux was thinking about the dog. It was a shame.
Because the kid wasn’t going to buy it the easy way. And Devereaux didn’t have all that much time.

Devereaux shifted on his feet and the dog sensed the shift and gurgled a growl. But the young man kept reading.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “So what do you want?”

“I want to see some of your records over the past two months. Delivery schedules, you might say.”

“I’m not sure I can do that,” the young man said.

“What’s your name?”

“Sellers,” he said. “What’s your name?”

Cocky.

“It’s on my identification.”

“I never heard of identification like this.”

“Maybe you’ve never had an insurance inspector come around before.”

“We have insurance guys—”

“We’re the guys who check up on insurance guys.” The line had worked in the apartment, of course, because the people there wanted to believe in him. But Sellers knew. And it was too bad.

“Come on back to the office,” said Sellers. “Let’s talk to Jerry.” Devereaux had not expected that.

It was late afternoon. Sunlight tried to fight its way through the dark windows but it was a losing battle. Caged lights hanging from the ceiling provided the only illumination.

The office was three stairs up at the back of the garage.

The walls were bright yellow and covered with graffiti and calendars. Miss National Hardware Convention held a wrench in one hand and showed her bottom.

The desks were butted into one wall and littered
with bits of paper. There was grease on the chairs. Jerry was taller than Devereaux but his eyes looked a shade slower.

And the dog was outside. That was just as well. Not that it would have mattered.

Devereaux figured they would have made a call by now.

He walked into the room ahead of Sellers and when Sellers was nearly through the door, Devereaux turned suddenly and flung him at the second man.

But Sellers was braced. He only stumbled. Jerry pulled out a pistol.

Just a shade slow in the eyes.

Devereaux fired up and the bullet caught him flat in the throat. It was a small-caliber pistol—the Colt Python .357 Magnum was in the custody of the Swiss army captain named Boll—but it was good enough.

The dog was barking like mad and flinging itself against the door.

Sellers was deafened by the explosion. He turned and stared at Devereaux. His blue eyes were very wide. Jerry slid down the wall.

“I don’t have any time,” Devereaux said.

“We don’t keep the records here.”

“Sure you do.”

“I’m telling you—”

“When you do a job for an agency, you keep one copy of the records.” It was said like a dead man was not in the same room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Devereaux said, “Take off your glasses.”

Sellers removed his wire-rims carefully.

“Give them to me.”

Sellers handed them to Devereaux, who stood with the pistol in hand.

Devereaux dropped them. He stepped on them and broke them.

“Glass,” Devereaux said. “I thought everyone used plastic.”

“I’ve got another pair,” Sellers said. He almost smirked. He was tough enough, Devereaux thought. No one was tough enough to stand up forever but the tough ones could wait you out. Especially if they had made a phone call and they were waiting for reinforcements.

Devereaux put the pistol in his pocket. There just wasn’t enough time.

“Come on,” he said.

“Tiger is waiting,” Sellers said.

“And I don’t want to kill the dog,” Devereaux said. “You see the way it is.”

The voice was reasoned and Sellers saw the way it was. He’d get this guy, there was no question of that. But there had to be a little room to do it. And the guy sure had dropped Jerry. Jesus Christ, he’d dropped Jerry without even thinking about it.

There are slums in Washington very nearly as bad as those in cities like New York or Chicago. They are the best places in the country to conduct business without interference from people in authority.

Or people who might be looking for you.

It is true that most urban slums are inhabited by blacks and that the presence of two white men—like the two white men who now entered the house on Eleventh Street N.E.—might appear odd to the neighbors. But one of the
men—the man with the graying hair and the hard face—that man had already turned the right color. He was green. He had green and it came up front. And he was Syndicate, there was no doubt about that. You can tell the Syndicate because those boys look right through the back of your head. So don’t mess with the man—this was the advice of Junius Falkner to his nephew—don’t mess with the man, let him have the room he wants, just you go ’bout your business and you say none to him. Even if the other white man was blindfolded.

It was not what Sellers had expected at all.

Devereaux tore off the blindfold. The room was illuminated by three lamps fed off a single outlet. The single outlet looked like an octopus with streams of wires running from the core. There was a television set and a linoleum floor and a single bed with a swayback mattress covered with dirty sheets. There was a second mattress on the linoleum itself. There was a wooden table, painted green, and three chairs. Rooms like this always have three chairs. The single window was bolted with burglar bars and there were roaches above the sink on the far wall. The far wall was only eleven feet from the entry door.

The room smelled of neglect, dirt, and fear.

Sellers thought, for the first time, that the fear might be coming from him.

The gray man indicated one of the straight chairs. Sellers sat down. He was still blinded. He blinked and his eyes teared.

“I suppose you can’t see very well. Do you want me to describe the room?”