He couldn't keep it out of his eyes; I was right. He looked away. "That's ridiculous. Listen—"
"No. You listen. Don't kid yourself, Hamilton. He left that package with you because it was too dangerous to leave with his daughter or anyone else he cared for. And it's no less dangerous now. If you've still got it in forty-eight hours, believe me, you're as good as dead."
He tried to light a cigarette, get back his composure, but now his anxiety was coming out like sweat.
"I don't believe you," he stammered. "Why should I? If your theory's right, why was Brightman killed after he gave me his package? You're telling the lies."
Again I shook my head. "That's something else you'd better get straight. You've got that package, so you probably know what's inside it. A key? A combination? Some sort of document that gets you into a vault? Whatever it is, it leads to a great deal of money — but don't be tempted. It's part of the money the Soviets originally gave Brightman to buy that equipment you were putting him on to. A lot was left over. Certain people, certain Russians, are trying to get hold of it, and your former employers are trying to stop them; they want to cover the whole thing up. So whatever you do, don't go to them for help. I think that's the mistake Brightman made."
I'd been working much of this out as I went along, but as soon as I started to speak, I knew it was true. Subotin on one side, the KGB on the other: there'd be more complications, but that was the heart of it. Brightman had probably gone to his old masters to get Subotin off his back, but they'd eliminated him instead, and then done likewise with Travin. I was suddenly convinced of this — and my conviction must have got through to Hamilton. When I was finished, he poured out more whiskey but then thrust it away. "I don't believe that," he said. "None of it. I was loyal… perfectly. I've kept up my contacts — it's been a long time, but there are still a few people left who'll remember my name, who'll be grateful. And everyone knows that the Soviet Service takes care of its own."
I looked at him, amazed. It was incredible if he actually believed this. "Mr. Hamilton," I said, "you are a forty-year-old skeleton in the closet. They just want to make sure you don't rattle."
An expression of shock spread over his face; strangely enough, I think it was my contempt that got through to him. He realized I considered him a fool and was embarrassed — he didn't like to be thought of that way. He suddenly strode out of the salon, through the galley, and opened a door into a cabin under the wheelhouse. A light went on, and I could hear him rummaging in a desk. I had a moment's panic then, thinking of a gun. But he pulled out a bottle of pills and popped a few down his throat. He looked back at me; then his eyes faltered. As he started to speak, I could barely hear him. "All right," he said. "You've made your point… and I'll admit I haven't told the whole truth. But listen, you've got to help me."
"Just give me the package, the envelope… whatever it is. *'ll get rid of it for you and I'll make sure they understand that you don't have it anymore. Then you're home free."
He shook his head. "No… listen, I can't. Not just like that-it's not that simple. You have to believe me. I need time to think." He looked up at me now and made a quick gesture with his hand, to take in the barge. "How safe am I here?" As safe as a man on the edge of a cliff. They have your address, your apartment. Is there anything there that will lead them here?"
He put his hand up to his head. "I don't think so… at least not immediately."
I shrugged. "Then they won't find you — immediately. But they'll find you eventually."
"Twenty-four hours… that's all I need. I must have that long. Could you do that? Wait till tomorrow? Come back tomorrow evening, Thome. We'll work out something then."
I looked at him, down the length of the boat. An old man: tarted up. If old men can be tarted up… The pleading tone that had come into his voice should have increased my contempt, but, despite myself, I felt a little sympathy. I shrugged. "You understand, Hamilton, I'm not your problem."
He nodded. "Of course… of course." He even tried a smile. "I realize you're trying to help. I thank you for that. But don't do anything now. Just give me a little more time. Till tomorrow… Come back then, Thorne. Same time. We'll work something out."
I said nothing. In truth, I felt more than a little sick, and half of me wanted to send this nasty little man straight off to prison. Except he wouldn't go there. What he'd done was too long ago; and the CIA, never having let the British live down Philby, weren't going to expose themselves to the embarrassment of revealing Hamilton's existence. No, they'd make his life difficult — tax audits, passport restrictions, bureaucratic harassment — but these discomforts would be marginal. And he knew this. Which meant I couldn't even threaten him with the police. Yet I also knew he was going to do something stupid. He had Brightman's "package," whatever that was, and he wanted some time — he was going to do something stupid, all right.
But I got up and shrugged myself into my raincoat. Then I said, "Hamilton, do you have any idea who these people are?"
He made a little gesture with his hand. "Brightman mentioned something… I think he said they were a faction of the Service — the KGB — with connections into the military… Not very nice."
"You're not thinking that you can convince them that you're on their side?"
"No," he said. "Of course not. Nothing like that."
"And don't try convincing the embassy, either."
His face suddenly twisted in anger. "I'm not on anyone's side — I don't care—"
"Don't give me that. You've been on the same side from the very beginning. Your own."
He sneered then. But not very convincingly. "What do you know? You didn't have to live through the times we lived through."
"No, I didn't. But people like you didn't make it any easier for those who did."
As a rebuke, it wasn't much, but it was the best I could do. And it shut him up as I walked past him, through the galley, and climbed the stairs into the wheelhouse. Stepping outside, I looked at my watch. It was after eight; we'd talked a long time. The rain had stopped, but a cold wind was blowing down the river. It snatched traffic sounds from the Pont-Neuf and made lights from the He de la Cite dance in the water. I made my way over the barges; someone had boiled chicken for dinner, and I could hear the splash of water and a clatter of pans. Nearby, a man coughed and murmured, "Bon soir," and I waved vaguely into the darkness.
I climbed up to the quai. On the sidewalk, lighting a cigarette, I felt very uneasy. I knew he was up to something, and whatever he did would be on my head. Partly. But then I told myself, no, I was damned if I was going to take responsibility for people like Hamilton. But I still didn't want to let him out 3t my sight, so I crossed the road to a cafe and found a table that let me keep watch on the stairway up from the river. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Hamilton appeared — but not very dramatically: he just went into a phone booth, made a call, came out again. Half an hour went by. And then a car drew up, the sort of American car that always seems ridiculous on a European street: a huge Dodge Charger that was painted bright yellow and festooned with spoilers and window slats. It stopped, hazard lights flashing. Someone got out… and I smiled at myself and swore for the thousandth time never again to speculate about other people's sex lives, for Hamilton's friend was a young, pretty boy. They talked for a minute, then the boy drove away. But Hamilton stayed where he was, smoking a cigarette and running his fingers back through his long silver hair. A few minutes later, the young man returned, this time on foot. Together, they went down to the river. After an hour, when they still hadn't come back, I was sure they were settled in for the night. But I was taking no chances. Making a quick tour of the streets near the quai, I found the boy's Dodge squeezed into an alley, and then fetched my own little machine from the pension and parked up the road.