He waited in the entranceway for the sudden, furious onslaught to ease. He felt damp already, and cold.
The meet had been decided weeks before. When he had talked with that boy they sent — a Third Man. Not his type at all, ducks — a little too macho, with a ferret face.
He recalled with satisfaction that warmed him how he punctured Ferretface’s tough-guy act. It had been quite easy. And then Ferretface had listened to Hastings’ instructions.
Your humble servant, Hastings, had selected the buffet in Edinburgh Central Station. Miserable little buffet not a hundred feet from the gate to the afternoon express to Glasgow. Just in case.
Hastings was aware they might not trust him anymore.
He plunged into the street again and half ran down the sidewalk, staying close to the shop buildings. Across the magnificent and gloomy expanse of the famous thoroughfare, the wind built volume that whirled capriciously behind him and prodded Hastings along like a crusher with his nightstick. Move along there, yer bloody queen.…
The brooding gothic columns of the Walter Scott memorial loomed up and then away and Hastings hurried on until he was down at the entrance of the station, breathing hard, his face flushed, his mackintosh soaked. His breath came in foggy jerks.
He wanted to rush into the cover of the station.
Caution, old luv, he told himself. He stood in the entry and waited for his shivering to cease. One o’clock and all’s well. The train for Glasgow sits steaming at the far gate. Ticket. There it is. Leaves in ten minutes. Just enough time to judge the situation and make a run for it if he had to.
He strolled to the window of the buffet in the main concourse of the station and peered inside.
Typical British Rail. All bright plasticky colors already fading. Stacks of stale sandwich rounds. A fat woman in a heavy coat with two small, red-cheeked children sat slopping their tea at one table. An old man with a copy of The Scotsman sat near the window, judiciously muttering over the headlines. Two British Rail conductors sat at a third table, leaning over the tits-and-bums page of The Sun.
And Devereaux.
Hastings caught his breath, felt heavy in his arms.
Rather too much, luv, isn’t it? I mean, sending a Ninth Man from Section? Don’t they trust dear, dear Hastings? The thought overwhelmed him. He slowly continued his inventory of the buffet and then let his eyes rest again on Devereaux, who sat in a smoking wet raincoat, cupping a mug of milky tea in his broad, flat-fingered hands.
Still the same. Same gray-and-black hair. Same crosshatched face that was neither handsome nor ugly. Devereaux’s features all showed age in an oddly appealing way; probably he had not been as attractive as a young man, but, with age, had accumulated character. Same marble-gray eyes and wintry face. Even when they were in Athens a long time ago. Aren’t you cold, luv, with a face like that? Then he would smile — Devereaux had liked Hastings — and Hastings had begun to feel comfortable with him. Strictly platonic, old darling, not my type at all.
Six minutes to the Glasgow train.
Hastings fingered the little cardboard ticket in his pocket. The Section would never kill him in a British Rail buffet. No, no. Wouldn’t do at all. Indeed, they would prefer not to kill him in these blessed isles at all, since R Section did not exist.
Five minutes.
Lost your nerve, old darling?
Hastings made his decision then.
He pushed open the door of the buffet and strode in with what he fancied a hearty manner. He shambled to the food counter and ordered a cup of white and carried the plastic mug to the plastic table where Devereaux sat.
The previous occupants of the table had left a half-eaten ham sandwich. Hastings sat down and covered it with a paper napkin. “Requiescat in pace.”
Devereaux did not speak. The trip had been a brutal one. The plane had landed late at Heathrow just after dawn and the northern airports were all socked in. He had driven five hours north to make the meeting.
“You look older,” said Hastings at last. “But well.”
“I am.”
“Well, jolly to see you and all that. Been years.” Hastings affected a bishop’s manner. “How long?”
They both knew how long.
“Ten years.”
“My, ten years in service to my American cousins,” Hastings said. The milk-and-tea was warm and a little bitter. “Time flies so when one is so thoroughly enjoying oneself—”
Two minutes to the Glasgow train. Dash. Upset the table, throw the tea in his face, through the door, the gates, the train just pulling out.
Steady now, old luv.
“You’re quite important now, I should say,” Hastings said. “I really didn’t expect you at all. I mean, from the ridiculous to the sublime — first that little ferret and now you. Nothing in moderation?”
Devereaux watched him.
“Wretched stuff,” Hastings complained suddenly. He flung down the cup. “Disgrace when the bloody British can’t make a decent cuppa.” He glanced up. Devereaux had not moved. “Of course,” he continued. “One can’t expect civilization from the Scots.”
All was still. The woman with the apple-cheeked children had left.
Hastings dispensed with the bishop. “You’ve got the money?”
“What have you got?”
“Ah,” said Hastings. “Ah.” He decided. He eased back on the plastic chair and, releasing the Glasgow ticket, pulled his hand from his coat.
“Ah, what I have,” he said.
“I am prepared to evaluate it,” said Devereaux quietly.
“To give it value.” Hastings “ahed” once more. “So that’s why they sent you along. Of course. Certainly. Makes a good deal of sense. Field evaluation.” It was all going to work out satisfactorily.
“They are puzzled by your silence,” Devereaux said carefully. “They want to be filled in.”
“And filled in they shall be, luv,” said Hastings heartily. “Filled and refilled and filled again until they have had their fill.”
“Do you have both… both parts?”
“Do you have all the money, luv? That’s more to the point, ain’t it?”
Devereaux said, “We’re prepared.”
Hastings winked. “You wouldn’t fool an old man, would you?”
Devereaux looked at him closely, at the mottled face, and felt something like pity. “You wouldn’t fool us now, would you?”
Said mildly, without hint of malice. Which made it frightening.
“No, no, never dream of it,” the older man cried. “Not at all. This is the goods, my dear, as you might say. This is the McCoy, the Derby Day.”
Devereaux tried a cautious smile. Merely as an exploration. “The last one, eh, Hastings?”
Hastings glanced up.
Devereaux tuned the smile two degrees upward. “We’re prepared for that. Don’t worry. Even agents have to retire.”
“Ah, well, then.” Something like relief. Forgetting his previous comment, the Englishman slurped down the remains of the milky tea. “I’m free then. A free man.”
“Soon,” said Devereaux.
“As you say, Dev. Well, to business then, me darlin’. You must get a room and get out of those clothes. Bloody climate here. Not like the islands, eh, Dev?”
Devereaux did not respond.
“I’d let you stay in my digs but you wouldn’t care for it, luv. It’s not you.” He laughed. “All me.” Patted his belly. “And then some. Simply no room at the inn, old duck.” Becoming the avuncular country cleric. “Station hotel upstairs is as good as any and better than most. Very convenient. Been in this filthy city before?”
“I suppose.” Devereaux knew airports, not cities.
“Well, you clean up and soak in a hot bath and I’ll meet you at six o’clock sharp right across the way at the Crescent and Lion. Splendid pub. One of the few decent pleasures left in this Calvinistic, moralistic, tight-fisted hole — where was I? Six P.M. I’ll lay it out for you and then we can arrange to talk with a couple of my… my colleagues.” He was lapsing into a stage-Irish dialect. “Me boyos.”