"Do you know where he lives?"
"Five years ago, Harry gave me a message. He was retired then — Hamilton, I mean. He was living in Paris."
I got to my feet. Now, at one level, I did know everything. Brightman had taken his final secret, the location of the gold, to his grave. Since his death, Subotin had been going from one of Brightman's old contacts to the other in the hopes of finding it. I suddenly felt very queasy: what had happened to Dr. Charlie? If tonight was anything to go by, his fate couldn't have been very pleasant. And neither would Hamilton's. He'd been a spy — why mince words? — and I owed him nothing, but simple humanity said I had to warn him. There was a phone in the bedroom. It was midnight when I started to dial, which made it five in the morning in Paris, but that was probably all for the best; and certainly there was no sense in waiting. It was unlikely that Subotin could have acted this quickly, but judging by his American Express account, he got around a good deal, and conceivably he had friends in France who were just a phone call away. In any event, I was forty minutes getting through. There was a bad line, and you'd be surprised how many Hamiltons there are in the Paris directory — I woke up two Peters and one Philippe before finding Paul. When I got him, he grumbled French into the phone, but after I'd asked if he'd once worked for the State Department and then said the name Harry Bright-man, he was fully awake. Even so, he was cautious.
"Maybe I knew someone like that. I'm not sure."
"If you've listened this far, Mr. Hamilton, you knew him. A Canadian. Wealthy. A fur—"
"All right, I knew him. Who are you?" His voice had the flat, neutral accent of Americans who've spoken French a long time, but he was from the East, probably Boston.
I ignored his question. I realized something: after speaking to this man for less than three minutes, I already disliked him. Heartily. Finally I said, "Brightman's dead, Mr. Hamilton. He killed himself — he was under great pressure."
"I know nothing about this. I'm not involved." An old man's voice now, a trace of whine. "This has nothing to do with me. It was all a long time—"
"Maybe so, Mr. Hamilton. But it will have something to do with you because the people who were applying the pressure to Brightman will soon apply it to you. They believe that Brightman left something with you, something valuable. Did he?"
"No. Absolutely not. I haven't seen him or heard from him in many years."
"All right. In a way that doesn't make any difference. The people who will be visiting you — who may be visiting you at any moment — won't take no for an answer. What—"
"Who are you? You still haven't answered my question."
"I'm a friend of Brightman's, if you like. I know he'd want me to give you this warning."
"And who are these people you keep talking about?"
"I'm not entirely sure. If you think about it, you might come to one obvious conclusion, but I believe that would be wrong. I do not believe these people are acting in an official capacity. On the other hand, I'm certain that they come from the same country as those people… if you follow me."
A long pause.
"I see."
Another pause.
Then: "You're warning me… you're saying I'm in danger because of all this?"
"That's right, Mr. Hamilton. Grave danger. Mortal danger."
Now there was another pause, in which the word "danger" echoed back and forth under the ocean, or over it, or however they do these things now. For Hamilton, perhaps, the medium through which my words came was the past, a past he now feared and greatly resented. "Well," he finally said, "you're warning me. What do you propose I do?"
As if it was my responsibility; as if it was somehow my fault. I just said, "Whatever you like."
A pause. I thought I heard him clearing his throat. Then he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply…"
I wondered who he was. What he had been. What he had done for them. And I wondered why. Was he a fool? A knave? Greedy? Homosexual? And then I wondered whether, at this late date, he could even have answered the question.
"Mr. Hamilton," I said, "just listen. You have to leave your home, and you have to leave now. Go to some place where you can't be traced. Not a hotel, I should think, or even a friend's — at least, if there's any obvious connection to you. But some place—"
"I could go—"
"Don't tell me. I don't want to know, at least not now. Just go there, at once. I mean that. Leave immediately. These people may have a Paris branch; they could be on their way now. So get out right away, even if you have to spend the next few hours wandering around in a park. You understand this?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'll come to Paris. I can't be sure when I'll get there, but within the next couple of days. When I arrive, I'll leave a message for you at American Express… the main office, near the Opera… you know where it is. I'll tell you where I'm staying, and how to get in touch with me. Then you phone me as soon as you can."
A pause, while he absorbed this. But there was no nonsense now: he'd taken it in; he believed me. "All right, but I'll need your name."
"Thorne. Robert Thorne." There was a long, echoing pause, and then I realized something and said, "It's possible you knew my father, Mr. Hamilton. He also worked for the State Department."
"Yes. I think I do know the name…"
But in fact, from his voice, I wasn't sure that he did. I said, "Whether you do or you don't, just remember: leave now."
"Yes. You're sure you can't—"
"Yes. Just get going. I'll tell you everything in a few days."
We hung up. I lit a cigarette. I was now absolutely exhausted. As I waved the match out, I looked around Berri's room. It was unfinished, the studs still exposed, and you could read the tar paper that had been laid over the walls: Ten-Test, Ten-Test, Ten-Test… Drawing my leg up, I leaned back on the bed and let a slow curl of smoke drift to the ceiling. The room was very small. A celclass="underline" Berri had belonged to one, and he still slept in one every night. I thought of Berri and Hamilton, putting them together in my mind. The two were very different, you could bet, but both were Communists and I could see the link that joined them together. It wasn't ideology, really; more a shading of character: a primness; a hint of puritanism; an effort of self-control — a set of inhibitions that kept their own authoritarianism under control. And when those inhibitions were taken away… I closed my eyes; I was very tired, and these dubious meditations, I knew, were just an excuse to keep me from going back to the room where the old man was waiting. His bloody clothes had been thrown over the end of the bed. Would he wash them, I wondered, put them back on again? Would he clean the furniture in the living room, scrub the blood off the walls? I supposed he would: it was his life, after all, and he'd have to pick up its pieces. Smoking quietly, I lay there and thought about that. His life, and what it was built on. The capacity to believe. Self-delusion. Paranoia. Who betrayed whom? Mendacity. Loyalty. Truth… And in the end, what was the wish nearest his heart? I don't give a damn. I swear to God I don't give a damn.
There was no putting it off. I stubbed out my cigarette and walked down the hall. For the second time that night, Berri had cleaned himself up, and now he was sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey before him. Canadian Club. I don't know where he got it: not from those cupboards. But perhaps, like the little tins of Twining's tea, it was secreted away, only brought out for special occasions. To his back, I said, "It's all right. I got to him first."
He tried to keep his voice level, but didn't quite make it. "Was he worth a fox, would you say?"
I shook my head. "Probably not, Mr. Berri. Or at least he wasn't worth your love for that fox."