He swallowed more whisky and it liberated his speech.
“Same with the Scottish pounds. Take them south of the river Tweed and yer English look at ye like yer trying to pass a bloody yen or somethin’. But English pounds is all welcome in Scotland. Yer see what I’m sayin,’ sir? Here the English treat us both like we have the bloody pox but then how do we treat each other? Like brothers, sir? None of it. Look at that ginger-bearded fella behind the bar!”
He slammed down his glass for emphasis and waved to the red-haired man for another round.
“And I tell ya, it’s the same with we Irish. We treat each other like enemies. Poor bleedin’ Ireland.” He paused. “And look at this poor country as well. They’ll get their North Sea oil in a few years and they’ll ship it all down south to London and be lucky to see a bob on every pound of profit. Mark me. No one ever bested the English in a deal or a war.”
“Save us,” said Devereaux.
“Ah? Oh, aye. Save the United States of America. God bless ’er.”
Devereaux listened on while his mind tracked Hastings. His body tried to nudge him toward sleep but his mind pursued the fat Englishman. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see the black Omega dial blur momentarily. No more whisky. He got up to disentangle himself from the Irishman’s one-sided conversation. It was not easy. Devereaux was forced to nod and smile and poke the Irishman’s conversation with a question, hoping it would permit him the chance to depart; but O’Neill held on like a wrestler, his monologue pinning Devereaux down. The Irishman had offered his name at one point but Devereaux did not introduce himself.
Finally, Devereaux bought his round and begged farewell and broke the web of words. At last, he managed to plunge again into the icy darkness of the Scottish capital.
The streets were nearly empty already.
He tried to play his game again: Doorway, post, street, passing cars. But the drinks and tiredness seemed to overwhelm his concentration. He hurried across the wet street to the station entrance and down to the cab line. He felt careless, but unable to do anything about it, for he had to know about Hastings.
He ducked into the tall black car and gave an address to the driver. The stately Austin pulled quickly away from the curb and plunged into the traffic on Princes Street. In the darkness, the battlements of Edinburgh Castle were lit with eerie light; fog began sifting in from the highlands beyond the city.
Devereaux felt ill. He wondered if it was from the whisky and pills or from thinking about Hastings. He had helped trick Hastings into service for R Section: He’d never felt guilty about it, because Hastings was a greedy man. Until now. Maybe that’s why his stomach churned.
A four-story building, dour and dark.
He paid the cab and went up the steps to the entry. Beyond the outer door he could see worn carpeting on stairs leading up to an ill-lit landing.
He pushed the door. It was locked. He was puzzled by it for a moment before he inserted a thin, strong wire into the lock and twisted the tumbler. He entered the hall.
There was no sound except for his heartbeat, which he thought was thunderous.
Mr. Percy. Second floor rear.
Percy. Why did he choose that? His mother’s maiden name? A friend? A lover? An enemy?
The stairs creaked under Devereaux’s weight.
He wondered if he should be afraid. He knew his body was tense but he knew it in a disassociated way. That was the pills acting on the whisky. He thought if there was danger finally at the top of the stairs, his mind would react too slowly.
He managed the landing.
A naked bulb of low wattage burned faintly from a fixture in the ceiling. Electrical cords — painted over scores of time — ran along the wainscoting.
He had no weapon except for the garroting wire wound in the copper bracelet on his left wrist. The bracelet was the type sold as a cure for arthritis. The thin wire inside it had killed three men — quietly and quickly. The technique was quite simple: Behind the victim, over his head, turn your body and throw your shoulder into his back and then bend over, lifting the victim’s body as it dangles on the wire around his neck. Usually, death is instantaneous; in any event, the victim cannot cry out. Very neat, Hanley had said; R Section was pleased with it for its simplicity and effectiveness. And cost. The wire was indestructible and cost — Hanley had been especially proud of this — seven cents to produce.
The door to Mr. Percy’s room was ajar.
The hallway was dark; vague, dank odors of mold and heat permeated it.
Devereaux stood at the top of the stairs and waited. He tried to listen for a sound that wasn’t there. He waited two minutes for the silence to end.
He walked across the hall then and cursed the creaking of the wooden floor under the flowered carpet. He pushed open the door of Percy-Hastings’ room.
He nearly stepped into the blood.
It was everywhere.
He walked around the soaking pool by the door and looked down at Hastings.
The fat older man looked like a broken doll. His face was puffed up by death, his eyes protruded comically. His swollen tongue lolled out of his mouth.
As Devereaux stood and looked at him, the first wave of nausea rose in him and then fell back. He stood perfectly still while his eyes catalogued the room:
Hastings had been stabbed. The wounds were all over his naked body. He was sprawled face up but his legs were drawn up and his hip rested on its side on the floor in a grotesque fetal position. His penis lay on the blood-soaked couch.
Devereaux squatted down, holding his raincoat off the floor so that it would not be stained.
He touched Hastings’ neck. There was a deep cut running from ear to ear. A thin cut, cruelly made. It had killed him, Devereaux decided. And it had not been made by a knife. Hastings had been garroted.
Hastings’ body smelled. There was excrement on the floor, mixed in the blood, released at the moment of death.
The room was torn up; papers were scattered on the floor; books were heaped in a corner. Everything Hastings owned had been violated, searched, torn apart, destroyed.
Devereaux stood up and took a last look at the agent and turned and retraced his steps to the door. He backed into the black hall and went to the stairs. For a moment, he stood and listened.
He thought he heard a door closing quietly.
His heart thumped; there was the beginning of a dull pain in his shoulders, spreading and warming across his upper back.
He started down the stairs.
Outside, on the empty street, the houses were all in darkness. Old-fashioned street lamps barely stabbed at the fog shrouding the buildings. Devereaux moved to the middle of the street and began to walk toward Princes Street. His mind had now surrendered to the exhaustion of his body; he felt drunk, and he knew that if they were waiting to kill him, he would die. He gave up and surrendered to any death waiting for him.
It took nearly an hour to get back to his hotel. The lift to his room seemed to take an hour as well. He pushed his legs down the corridor to his room. Opened the door. He was vaguely aware the match was still in place. He shut the door, heard the lock click.
Then the sickness rose up in him.
Going to the bathroom, he turned the light on and vomited into the toilet. When he was not sick anymore, he put his finger in his mouth and gagged and vomited again, a yellowish liquid.
Carefully, he pulled off his clothing and placed the pieces on the toilet seat. Then he climbed into the tub and turned on the ancient shower. He let the cold water run across his body until he felt it, until he began to shiver. Finally, he toweled himself, went into the darkened bedroom, and fell into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. He lay and shivered for a long time until his body warmth regenerated him.
Hastings’ face in life appeared in the darkness. They were on that island again. Hastings’ eyes stared at him; he had betrayed Hastings, turned him into a double agent, a spy for a friendly power.