Disconnected with no forwarding number.
Hanley was gone; where had Hanley gone?
Devereaux tasted the beer again. He stared at nothing at all and tried to picture Hanley in his mind and hear again the disjointed words of those two telephone calls, the first when he and Rita were making love, the second when she was gone.
Claudette, who was the girl behind the wide oak bar, gazed at M. Devereaux and thought she might be in love with him. Why not? Didn’t he come every day to see her? Didn’t he give her extravagant tips? Exactly as a lover might do. He was shy; he wanted her attention. She was so ready to please him. Dear man.
“That’s just it. No November. There are no spies. I think I can tell you. I need to tell you. And did you know that your November is on his way to Moscow?”
Warning. Or threat?
Rita had sprawled in bed, in afterlove, her nakedness warm and open, her body ajar. She had stared at him as he listened to Hanley that night, listened to the mad words: Warning. Threat. It didn’t matter.
And then Hanley spoke of a nutcracker and that madeno more sense and Hanley was truly mad, Devereaux had thought. Nearly two weeks before.
Now, in the
Herald-Tribune
, he saw a little essay on the editorial page, arguing that the day of the spy was passed, that electronic devices had made the work of spies irrelevant. He had smiled as he read it and then he had thought of Hanley. He had decided to call Hanley. And Hanley was gone.
Devereaux felt a peculiar chill growing inside the coldness already inside him. Rita Macklin was a million miles away. He felt the prickle on the back of his neck that signified awareness and the presence of danger. And yet, what was all around him but this dull life and the girl behind the bar with the small, secret smile?
Devereaux did not trust R Section or Hanley. It was a matter of survival. It was a wise course.
He frowned. Claudette saw the frown and frowned in sympathy, worried for the professor. She hurried along the polished oak bar to him and asked him, in French, if everything was all right.
He tried a smile. He said yes. He looked away, back to his newspaper.
So shy, Claudette thought. She blushed. She felt warm, thinking of him. It didn’t matter even if he was married. It didn’t matter. All right, she thought: Take me. He needs comfort and I am comfortable. I will make no demands; I earn my own way, I can do as I please. She thought of him holding her and his weight pressing down on her the length of her body, pressing her breasts and opening her legs. So close together.
Devereaux stared at the paper and only thought: There was Hanley, Mrs. Neumann, who had buried the files, andYackley. But had any of them told the others? Was Hanley saying that Colonel Ready convinced Moscow to come after him again? Spies were terrible at keeping secrets. Secrets were meant to be broken and exposed.
There are no spies.
Could it mean: There are no secrets?
Hanley was dull, stable, and the most predictable man in the world. Was he drawing Devereaux back into the trade with riddles and puzzles? It was childish and very much like Hanley.
Claudette decided she would surrender herself on the first night because the professor was too shy to be flirted with. He had to know he did not have to be shy. She would be the bold one.
She offered him a bowl of pretzels.
He was startled. He looked up at Claudette. She was young and fair and her eyes were empty and shining. He said no in a polite way and shut her out of mind.
But she hovered now. “Another beer?”
No. No. No.
He rose from the chairlike stool with back and arms and put down a note that was probably too much to leave as a tip.
She thanked him and tried to put meaning into her voice. She smiled at him. She had beautiful teeth.
He tried another smile on her. He used smiles like disguises. He nodded and took his papers and walked out of the café.
March was chill and damp and bright. Clouds brooded above the snowfields in
Hanley was gone; where had Hanley gone?
Devereaux tasted the beer again. He stared at nothing at all and tried to picture Hanley in his mind and hear again the disjointed words of those two telephone calls, the first when he and Rita were making love, the second when she was gone.
Claudette, who was the girl behind the wide oak bar, gazed at M. Devereaux and thought she might be in love with him. Why not? Didn’t he come every day to see her? Didn’t he give her extravagant tips? Exactly as a lover might do. He was shy; he wanted her attention. She was so ready to please him. Dear man.
“That’s just it. No November. There are no spies. I think I can tell you. I need to tell you. And did you know that your November is on his way to Moscow?”
Warning. Or threat?
Rita had sprawled in bed, in afterlove, her nakedness warm and open, her body ajar. She had stared at him as he listened to Hanley that night, listened to the mad words: Warning. Threat. It didn’t matter.
And then Hanley spoke of a nutcracker and that madeno more sense and Hanley was truly mad, Devereaux had thought. Nearly two weeks before.
Now, in the
Herald-Tribune
, he saw a little essay on the editorial page, arguing that the day of the spy was passed, that electronic devices had made the work of spies irrelevant. He had smiled as he read it and then he had thought of Hanley. He had decided to call Hanley. And Hanley was gone.
Devereaux felt a peculiar chill growing inside the coldness already inside him. Rita Macklin was a million miles away. He felt the prickle on the back of his neck that signified awareness and the presence of danger. And yet, what was all around him but this dull life and the girl behind the bar with the small, secret smile?
Devereaux did not trust R Section or Hanley. It was a matter of survival. It was a wise course.
He frowned. Claudette saw the frown and frowned in sympathy, worried for the professor. She hurried along the polished oak bar to him and asked him, in French, if everything was all right.
He tried a smile. He said yes. He looked away, back to his newspaper.
So shy, Claudette thought. She blushed. She felt warm, thinking of him. It didn’t matter even if he was married. It didn’t matter. All right, she thought: Take me. He needs comfort and I am comfortable. I will make no demands; I earn my own way, I can do as I please. She thought of him holding her and his weight pressing down on her the length of her body, pressing her breasts and opening her legs. So close together.
Devereaux stared at the paper and only thought: There was Hanley, Mrs. Neumann, who had buried the files, andYackley. But had any of them told the others? Was Hanley saying that Colonel Ready convinced Moscow to come after him again? Spies were terrible at keeping secrets. Secrets were meant to be broken and exposed.
There are no spies.
Could it mean: There are no secrets?
Hanley was dull, stable, and the most predictable man in the world. Was he drawing Devereaux back into the trade with riddles and puzzles? It was childish and very much like Hanley.
Claudette decided she would surrender herself on the first night because the professor was too shy to be flirted with. He had to know he did not have to be shy. She would be the bold one.
She offered him a bowl of pretzels.
He was startled. He looked up at Claudette. She was young and fair and her eyes were empty and shining. He said no in a polite way and shut her out of mind.
But she hovered now. “Another beer?”
No. No. No.
He rose from the chairlike stool with back and arms and put down a note that was probably too much to leave as a tip.
She thanked him and tried to put meaning into her voice. She smiled at him. She had beautiful teeth.
He tried another smile on her. He used smiles like disguises. He nodded and took his papers and walked out of the café.
March was chill and damp and bright. Clouds brooded above the snowfields in
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