I wondered what that piece of equipment had been, but at this late date it could scarcely make any difference — outside a law court. What was clear, however, was that Hamilton was telling at least part of the truth: according to Berri, this was precisely the sort of thing that Brightman had done.
I said, "You claim you met him a second time… in 1956."
"Yes. Hungary, you'll remember. That was special again. By this time — not that anyone ever told me — I think I was under Brightman's control. A number of people must have been, and one of them was having pangs of conscience. Apparently he believed all that talk about Freedom Fighters and was threatening to do something foolish. He must have been an idiot. The Hungarians positively welcomed the Germans; men lined up in the streets of Budapest to fight on the Russian front. So far as I was concerned, they deserved everything they got… In any case, this person worked in the State Department and Bright-man wanted me to calm him down."
"Who was it?"
"I've no idea. I told Brightman to forget it — I wasn't going to expose myself to somebody who was already getting cold feet. That was his problem. I just wanted him to keep me out of it."
"Did he understand that?"
"Yes."
"Was he angry?"
"No… He pushed me hard to speak to this person but I think he understood my position well enough."
Interesting. Brightman had asked him for a favor, then. But Hamilton hadn't come through. I said, "These were face-to-face meetings…"
"Yes."
"But there must have been other forms of communication with him as well. Messages. And — at least once — a messenger."
"You know about that? He was a funny little fellow. A French-Canadian. He told me his name but I forget it. I was living here then, just nicely retired. Brightman wanted me to set up a meeting for him, through the embassy… the Soviet Embassy, of course. I told him no."
"Why?"
"Why should I? Why should I take a risk for him?"
"All right… but why do you think Brightman asked you to? By all accounts, he was higher up in the hierarchy — closer to the embassy, if you like — than you ever were."
He shrugged. "It's a good question, and at the time I asked it. But you understand I wasn't dealing with him, just his messenger, and he clearly knew nothing. I assumed that Brightman had his own procedures for getting in touch with them but this time, for some reason, preferred to use an outside party. Or perhaps he'd had unsatisfactory results using his normal channels and wanted to try another. In any case, I didn't see what business it was of mine, so I said no."
"You have to admit it's a little strange. Brightman was never close to you… personally or professionally…"
"That's right."
"Yet under these circumstances — which we can assume were exceptional — he again picked on you for a favor. Why?"
"I don't know, Mr. Thorne. Using me might have been safer. More effective. Quicker. Who knows? Perhaps it was something entirely mundane. All these events happened a fair time ago. I was young when I started out — if I may put it like that — but quite probably the other people Brightman knew were much older. By the time we're talking about — this was just a few years back — there probably weren't many of us left."
That, at least, could be true. Of Brightman's original "ring," few could still be alive. This was all ancient history. 1939: the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact — more important to these people, strangely enough, than the outbreak of the war itself. 1941: Germany invades the Soviet Union. Communists, no longer embarrassed by their alliance with the Nazis, can come out of the closet and "help" the Russians under the guise of aiding the common effort against Hitler. 1945: the Cold War begins. A man like Hamilton — like the Rosenbergs, like Alger Hiss— is now in great peril. Worse: by 1956, and the Hungarian Uprising, disillusion has begun to set in; the risks no longer seem worth it. And by 1968, with the invasion of Czechoslovakia, even diehards like Brightman were beginning to search for a way out. But even the most recent of these dates was a dozen years ago now. Few people who had started out with Brightman would have been left, and even they would have been old men — like Philby or Anthony Blunt. Thus, Brightman could have been forced to come to Hamilton, whether he liked it or not. But he couldn't have liked it; given what I knew about Brightman and could guess about Hamilton, the two men had nothing in common. Yet he had trusted him… asked him for favors. Why?
As I thought about this, Hamilton went to the bar and poured himself another finger of whiskey. "So we're back to the present," he said. "The present, and Harry Brightman. Except Harry isn't part of it, is he?" I said nothing. I watched him drink. Again there was a nervous sucking of his lips at the rim of the glass. He looked back at me. "He is dead? You're sure of it?"
Since it was obviously so important to him, 1 said, definitely, "Yes. I saw his body myself. Harry Brightman is dead."
He gave me a look, then simply shrugged. "He never betrayed me, Mr. Thorne, and I have no wish to betray him. But there's not much point worrying if he's dead…" Coming from him, such a testament of loyalty had to be ludicrous… and it was a mistake, for now he'd drawn my attention again to that one crucial point: for Hamilton, Brightman's death mattered more than anything else. I watched him now as he set his glass back on the bar, then turned around, leaning against it and facing me.
"In any case," he continued, "I might as well tell you… about the last time I saw him, I mean." He picked up the glass again… a nice, casual gesture not quite perfectly acted. I knew, even before he opened his mouth, that he was going to tell me a lie. "It was in the second week of September. I had no idea he was coming. In fact, he just appeared at my elbow one day in the market — he was obviously taking the strictest precautions. We had a drink and talked. As I said, it was clear he was in trouble and wanted my help. I'd turned him down before, of course — and I don't make any apologies for that— but this time, I admit, it seemed something special. I tried to get out of him what it was. He refused to say, not until I committed myself. I just couldn't do that. Surely you understand? The only reason I've survived this long is because I've been very cautious."
I shook my head. Because I'd worked it out now. "I don't believe you, Mr. Hamilton. Not a word."
He turned away. "Believe what you like."
But I shook my head again; the most important thing about any lie is its motivation, and now I knew his. "He came to you that first time and you turned him down — but he kept coming back, time and time again. How come? Why bother? If you were so cautious, you'd always refuse to stick out your neck ¦ " " but he kept coming back. In fact, he kept coming back to you because you always did exactly as you were told. He was blackmailing you, Mr. Hamilton — that's what I believe. He had a nice bundle of documents stashed away in some vault and so you had to do just what he wanted."
"Don't be ridiculous. If he could blackmail me, think of what I had on him."
"Nothing. Certainly nothing on paper. Besides, he didn't give a damn. Threaten him and he might call your bluff — he was a disillusioned old man, sick with himself and sick with the world. But you? Oh no… you've got something to lose. You want to enjoy a cozy retirement on your beautiful barge. So you did just as he told you."