The November Man

Book 7: November Man

by Bill Granger

Genres: Action & Adventure; Spy Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

(Previously published as There Are No Spies.) SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE STARRING PIERCE BROSNAN - IN THEATERS AUGUST 27TH! The classic thriller featuring the lethally cool U.S. government spy code-named The November Man The president learned long ago that the CIA could not be trusted. And so he created his own group of deadly efficient men to gather independent intelligence: a watchdog organization to keep the CIA in check. R Section was born. "There are no spies . . . " Until he heard those four simple words, Devereaux thought he'd left his days in R Section behind. He was no longer The November Man, an American field officer in the vice-grip of duty and danger--and the most brilliant agent R Section had ever produced. When he receives the cryptic message from Hanley, his former handler, Devereaux has no idea he's about to be reactivated into a mission to save both his life and R Section itself. He's not aware that a beautiful KGB agent has been ordered to stalk and kill him-or that Hanley is now in a government-subsidized asylum for people with too many secrets. And he doesn't know that zero hour ticks closer for an operation to catch a master spy . . . with Devereaux the designated pawn. What The November Man doesn't know can kill him.

Release date: July 29, 2014

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 331

Sample

Tired,” Hanley said on the third Tuesday in February. He repeated the word several times to himself, alone in his windowless cubicle that was the office of the director of operations. He blinked, looked around at the white walls of the cold, bare room, and said the word again. It was as though everything familiar to him had drained his life away.

He said the word again to Miss Smurtty in the outer office and by then he had his hat on. He shrugged into his overcoat as he walked along the hall to the elevator bank on the sixth floor. He repeated the word to the security policeman at the elevator bank. The policeman said nothing.

Hanley said the word like a man searching memory for words to a song at the edge of the mind.

He went home and it wasn’t even noon yet.

He took to his bed.

Each morning thereafter, he called in by nine. He talked to the same woman in personnel and recorded his absence. He said he was ill because he felt so tired. He explained to the woman in personnel how tired he felt. And he stayed out sick the rest of the month of February. It was the first time in twenty-one years that Hanley had missed a day of work.

He was the good civil servant. As director of operations for R Section, he had a love for the Section that transcended mere identification with a job or mission.

The tiredness colored all his thoughts. He would lie in bed at night and listen to the roar of traffic beneath his apartment windows. He lived on the third floor of a large apartment building at the juncture of Massachusetts and Wisconsin avenues in northwest Washington. The rooms were large and airy but all the light was gray because it was spring in Washington and always raining.

Hanley sat by the window in his apartment in the afternoons and looked down at the cars climbing up the hill from DuPont Circle and around the Naval Observatory grounds where the Vice President’s white house sat in splendid isolation. Hanley thought too much. He thought about the Vice President having a better view and neighborhood to live in than the President trapped in the tangle of the central city. Hanley thought the traffic was very thick and very loud; it was like undergrowth around a neglected house. The weeds had grown and grown until one day there was nothing to be done but burn them off and tear the old house down and start again.

Hanley wept when he thought such things.

He had been growing more and more tired for weeks before he decided to take sick leave. Dr. Thompson’s pills did not seem to help him but he took them with precise faithfulness. He was a man of habits. He was cold and thin and his voice was flat as the Nebraska plains he had come from.

He thought of the child he had been. He wept when he thought of himself.

Once in a while he thought he would have to get better. He was director of operations for R Section and that meant he was director of spies. The master of the marionettes. But he was ill now and the spies were being left to dance without direction. This couldn’t go on. It mustn’t go on.

On March 1, the doctor came.

Dr. Thompson was vetted twice a year. He had taken his annual lie detector test in January. He was thirty-four years old and very nearly incompetent, which is why he was only employable by a government agency. Before joining the Section, he had nearly been stripped of his license to practice in his native Oregon because of some damned business involving surgery on a woman where the wrong organs had been removed. It had not been his fault.

Thompson carried a top secret clearance and had access to secrets to the level of N. He was a jolly young man with a pink face and a hearty, almost English manner. He slapped his hands together when he talked; he resembled Alec Guinness in early films.

Hanley allowed the prodding. It was government procedure. Thompson talked and poked and made Hanley cough; he tapped at his back and asked him to urinate into a jar and took a blood sample and talked about the Washington Redskins and laughed too much. Hanley endured it. He wanted not to feel so tired.

For no reason, Hanley began to weep. Thompson stared at him and asked him why he was crying. Hanley excused himself, went to the bathroom, wiped his eyes, and looked at his thin, cold, old sallow face.

“Why are you crying?” he asked himself.

When the ordeal was over, Hanley buttoned his pajama shirt and slipped the gray bathrobe over his thin shoulders and resumed his seat in the large chair by the front windows.

There were books strewn on the floor around the chair. He had been reading Somerset Maugham. He had been reading autobiography disguised as fiction in which Maugham, who had been a British agent in the First War, describes himself as “Ashenden, the secret agent.” And Ashenden takes a ferry one day across Lake Geneva, from France to neutral Switzerland, and…

Hanley had read the story over and over. He didn’t understand why. He didn’t understand why he was so tired.

“You need rest,” Dr. Thompson said. “You need to get some sun, get some color into those cheeks. Stop moping about. You took the pills I prescribed?”

“They seem to make me more tired.”

“They’re supposed to relax you,” Thompson said. “Listen to your doctor.” Smiled. “Go to Florida. Get some sun. Plenty of sun down there. Shouldn’t mope around here.”

Hanley thought of Florida. He had never been there. He blinked and looked out the window at his city, a place he had used and grown to love through use. They were going to tear down the café down on Fourteenth Street where he had gone to lunch every working day. Every working day of thirty-five years of work and they were going to tear it down.

He blinked and his vision was as wet as the rain-streaked windows. Thompson was talking to him. The voice droned.

Hanley thought of all the places he knew so intimately and had never seen. Like Number 2, Dhzerzhinski Square, Moscow. That ugly gray building—the headquarters of Committee for State Security. KGB. He knew it as an old enemy. It was nearly the same as knowing an old friend.

“What do you say to that?”

Hanley looked up and Thompson was beaming his professional beam.

“What do I say to what?”

“Hospitalization. A complete rest cure.”

“No.” Hanley’s voice was quick. “No. If I’m sick, I’m sick. If I’m not sick, I don’t need a hospital.”

“You need rest.”

“You can’t get rest in a hospital.”

Dr. Thompson frowned.

Hanley turned away, stared at the street below, stared at the traffic. The goddamn traffic. The noise pounded at his thoughts day and night. No wonder he was tired. Where were all those people going to? Did they live in their cars?

Hanley blinked and felt his eyes moisten again. He had never noticed the traffic before. His thoughts seemed to go in circles. What had he been thinking of—he had to get well, get back to Operations, see to the delicate business of Nutcracker.

He thought of Nutcracker.

He thought of the toy nutcracker from Germany he had owned as a child. Given to him one Christmas by a long-ago great-aunt. A child’s toy. Fierce and bristling in guard’s uniform, with a mustache and horrible large teeth.

He smiled as suddenly as he wept. He felt warm. He wanted Thompson to go away. The warmth of memory filled him. He had to get back to Section, back to seeing what was wrong with Nutcracker. Director of spies. To play the great game as he saw it in his mind.

“… medication,” Thompson concluded.

Hanley nodded, said nothing. He took the prescription sheet and looked at it. He waited for Thompson to leave.

Yackley listened to Thompson, asked him two questions and dismissed him.

It was the same afternoon. It had stopped raining. The sky was full of clouds and warm winds billowed along Fourteenth Street, cracking the flags on government buildings. Yackley’s office on the sixth floor of the south Department of Agriculture building had a large window that looked across the street at the dour Bureau of Engraving building.

Yackley was not pleased by anything Thompson told him about Hanley.

Yackley was director of R Section. Hanley worked for him. Hanley was letting the Section down.

Yackley stood at his window, looked down at his view, and thought about his Section. He was a political appointment from the early Reagan days. He was an attorney, a Republican, wealthy enough to work for the government. He took a Level Four polygraph examination once a year to maintain his Ultra clearance. He had access to level X in security and in the computer system called Tinkertoy.

Yackley was called the New Man by his derisive subordinates, including Hanley. They thought he was an ass; he knew that. He had replaced Rear Admiral Galloway (USN Retired) as head of Section because Galloway had stubbed his toes badly in some Section business in Florida. Galloway had been the Old Man.

Thompson had told him: “He won’t go.”

“Damn. He won’t go. Did you talk to him?”

“He wasn’t listening to me.”

“This was important, Doctor.” Yackley had put heavy emphasis on the last word, as though he didn’t believe it. He could have saved the sarcasm; Thompson was immune.

He would have to do something else.

Yackley felt nervous when he had to do something. Something on his own. Maybe he needed advice. Maybe he should consult his “rabbi.” Maybe he didn’t have to act right away.

The thoughts flung themselves one after the other through his mind. Yackley went back to his rosewood desk and sat down in the $455 leather swivel chair. He swiveled and put his hands behind his head to aid thought. He frowned. He thought about Hanley and the goddamn agent Devereaux and the business in Florida in which Galloway had stubbed his toes and been fired. It had been Hanley’s doing. And Devereaux’s. Hanley wanted to be head of Section. That’s what Yackley thought from time to time: A goddamned civil servant wanted to be head of Section.

Scheming. Hanley was scheming and it was all against Yackley because Hanley hated Yackley’s success. Yackley had issued a directive saying that, in order to “downtrim” the budget of Section, “cutbacks were needed in every sector” and that the effort would succeed only “if we all realize we are in this boat together and help pull each other’s oars.”

There had been any number of obscene drawings on Section bathroom walls showing Yackley pulling the oars of others.

It wasn’t funny. And Hanley—that was something Hanley would have dreamed up. To undermine his authority.

So Yackley had tapped Hanley for six months. Home and away. The taps were designed by the National Security Agency, which is the “hardware” supplier to the other intelligence services, including R Section. The taps were perfected and installed by Richfield, the Section’s own ELINT man and resident “hardware” genius. As well as the supreme loyalist.

Yackley squinted at the words of the transcript of the taps. Damned good thing he had tapped Hanley; should have done it years before.

February 21, time: 1:02 A.M. Electronic count indicates the telephone number is: Country—Switzerland; City—Lausanne; Number 28-23-56.

HANLEY: Hello?

(Silence for five seconds.)

HANLEY: Hello? Hello?

(Silence for two seconds.)

HANLEY: Hello? Someone say something.

VOICE: What do you want?

HANLEY: There’s a problem and I think I am beginning to understand it and I have to tell someone. I’ve discovered—

VOICE: I don’t care. I’m not in the trade. (Pause.) There is no November.

HANLEY: 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 duplicate November is on his way to Moscow?

(Silence for five seconds.)

HANLEY: Hello?

VOICE: I’m not in the trade, Hanley. That was our agreement. I don’t exist. November is some man running away from a wet contract.

HANLEY: A wet contract from Moscow. And now the man you tagged November is running right into the arms of the Opposition. Why is that?

VOICE: I don’t care. Don’t call me anymore.

(Broken connection.)

February 23, time: 1:13 A.M. Electronic count indicates the same country, city, and telephone number as previous conversation.

HANLEY: Hello?

VOICE: I’m not interested in talking to you.

HANLEY: Listen. For just one minute. I’ve got to tell someone this, I’ve got to talk it out to someone who understands. Who understands what’s going on in Section. Someone who isn’t in Section anymore.

VOICE: Are you drunk, Hanley? Has the one-martini lunch finally gotten out of control after all these years?

HANLEY: (garbled) has to be at the highest levels. Do you understand?

VOICE: I am not in the trade. That was our agreement.

(Garbled)

HANLEY: The pills. I stopped taking them and I don’t feel as bad. Are the pills… something wrong? I sleep all the time and then I wake up and I can’t sleep. I never knew there was so much traffic, all day and night, you can’t sleep. Where are all those people going?

VOICE: Home. You go home, too.

HANLEY: I am home.

VOICE: Then have a drink and go to sleep.

HANLEY: My lunch. They are going to tear down the place on Fourteenth Street. I went there every day of my life. A martini straight up and a cheeseburger with raw onion. One martini. I knew all the people there. And Mr. Sianis said to me, “Mr. Hanley, I have to sell the place because they are going to put up a trade center.”

VOICE: Why are you calling me? Leave me alone. Everything is over.

HANLEY: Damnit. You never leave the service. You know that. You’re in for life. And I’ve told you that.

VOICE: November is going to Moscow. You said it. November does not exist.

HANLEY: (portion missing) the secret, the point of the thing, when it comes down to it, it might just be that simple.

VOICE: What are you talking about?

HANLEY: I read Somerset Maugham over and over. Ashenden. About the secret agent in World War I, he reminded me that you were in Lausanne and that you probably took the same ferry boats between France and Switzerland that he did. All those years ago. When it was accepted finally. The need for spies. Reilly. Maugham. The people in BritIntell—I thought about you when I read those stories. Because of the location. You took that ferry.

VOICE: Yes.

HANLEY: I am not insane. I am not going insane. I am tired and I have time to think about things. I mean, sanity is understanding where your feet are planted, isn’t it? But I’m off my feet, I don’t have perspective anymore.

VOICE: Seek professional help.

HANLEY: Sarcasm. You have to help—

VOICE:—no.

HANLEY: (interrupted) secret. I think of one thing and think of another. I had a nutcracker when I was a child and—

VOICE: Good-bye, Hanley.

HANLEY: Wait. There are no spies. That’s what it means. There are no spies at all. But that’s not true. That’s the one thing I realize now. That’s not true.

(Disconnect)

February 28, time: 10:13 A.M. (Incoming call; location uncertain.)

HANLEY: Hello? Hello?

LYDIA NEUMANN: This is Lydia Neumann, Hanley. You’re still ill. I wanted to see how you were. Can I get you anything? I’m worried about you and we need you in Section.

HANLEY: So we can pull our oars.

NEUMANN: (Laughter)

HANLEY: I need rest, that’s all I need.

NEUMANN: Should I come over?

HANLEY: … sleep at night. Traffic. Where are those people all rushing to?

NEUMANN: Have you seen a doctor? Not Thompson. Don’t use Thompson.

HANLEY: Thompson? He doesn’t know a damned thing. I understand his little game. Pills. I know all the secrets, you know, Mrs. Neumann. I know everything. You let me fool myself but you were onto the secret as well, weren’t you? This is a game in a computer and you’re the master of Tinkertoy. The mistress of Tinkertoy. So I’ll ask you: Where is my Nutcracker?

NEUMANN: Hanley? Hanley? Are you all right?

HANLEY: My Nutcracker. New Man knows, New Man (Neumann?) knows—

NEUMANN: Hanley, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

HANLEY: Spies, Neumann. I am talking about the whole business of spies. Of moles and sleepers and agents who come awake, of doubles and triples, of dogs who bark and dogs who bite, covert and overt, going into black and black bag operations, and the business of the trade. I am talking about goddamn bona fides and about software and I am telling you, I am going to get to the bottom of the whole damned business.

NEUMANN: (garbled)

HANLEY: Oh, you believe that. I know you do. There are no spies. But I have my spies and you have a bunch of circuits. I have the spies. There are no spies?

NEUMANN: Hanley, my God—

(Disconnect)

Three telephone calls, except the call from a woman asking Hanley to subscribe to the Washington Post.

Yackley’s frown was deep and sincere. His skin was burned brown by January’s sun in St. Maarten; his eyes were blue and quite empty. But the frown spoke for his thoughts.

The room was lit by a single green-shaded banker’s lamp. The soft light framed the two photographs on his desk. His wife smiled crookedly at the photographer; his daughter smiled at Daddy. If they only understood all the secrets he had and was privy to. If they only could understand the nasty business that had to be done.

There are no spies.

Hanley told Devereaux that. And he told Devereaux about Colonel Ready, tagged as November, now making his way to Moscow to try to arrange a defection. A damned mess, all of it. And what was the real November going to do now? Except plot with Hanley.

There are no spies. And the New Man knows.

Yackley considered the matter for a moment. He knew exactly what he was going to do; he was working up an argument in conscience to sanctify it. But it had to be done in any case, even if it was going to be dirty.

Alexa was quite beautiful in the way of a certain kind of young Russian woman. Her eyes were coal-dark and deep and it was difficult to describe their color. Her eyes were also set sharply in the paleness of her strong features. Despite the generous width of her mouth and her very high cheekbones that seemed to stretch her skin, despite her coal-black hair that severely defined the edges of her pale features, her eyes held you. Her merest glance compelled you to stare at her, at her eyes, in total fascination.

Her eyes were her only drawback, from a professional point of view.

She might be able to change the color of her hair or disguise her slender figure by flattening her full breasts or by stooping to seem shorter or older than she was. But she could never disguise those eyes.

Alexa turned from the bar in the warm green room on the third deck of the Finlandia and gazed across the room at the man she was going to kill.

The trouble with Alexa’s usefulness as an intelligence agent for the Committee for State Security was that she was very good at those assignments that called for action—immediate, brutal, violent—and very bad at those assignments that called for mere intelligence gathering.

She was intelligent; but she was too visible. She was very beautiful and she was noticed wherever she went. Her Moscow accent was slight when she spoke English; her Moscow manners might have made many people mistake her for a New Yorker or a Parisian. She had the right mixture of rudeness and grace.

But it was no good having your informant fall in love with you or having your network of agents desire you sexually. Or have the watchers from the other side find it too agreeable to watch you. And suspect you, even as they fell in love with you. Besides, she could never change her eyes.

She stared at the man with graying hair who sat at the wide window, gazing into the gloomy night of the Baltic Sea. Alexa was the death-giver. It was not so bad, it was over so quickly, it was part of a large game. She never felt bad afterward. In fact, she had felt bad just once, when her victim had lived.

Two years ago. She was sent up through the Soviet embassy in Mexico City, which was the usual route of spies working on the West Coast of the United States. In that area south of San Francisco called Silicon Valley—where they made computers and invented wonderful things—she had seduced a somewhat shy, certainly amoral security guard who was twenty-four years old and made $7.23 an hour guarding the great secrets of M-Guide Computer Laboratories in Palo Alto.

His name was Tony. Poor Tony. He was now in the very harsh maximum security prison at Marion in southern Illinois. He was kept in a narrow cell most of the time and his only recreation was reading and working with weights. She felt bad afterward not because she had loved Tony at all—that had been business—but because she thought of herself caught in a cell for the rest of her life. She pitied herself. It would have been a merciful thing to kill Tony. She had considered it, the night he put his face between her legs and she had the Walther PPK under the pillow and she thought about it because Tony was very close to being caught. But he had pleased her and she had been merciful. Too bad for Tony.

Better to die like the man at the window in the bar. She studied his face, his lean chin, his glittering eyes. Dead man, she thought.

The Finlandia slid down the open sea passage between the islands that are flung out in a stream east from Stockholm, almost to the coast of Finland. In the bright moon of the starry night, here and there, above the snow, poked roofs or sticks of summer homes on the islands. The islands were the perpetual retreats of middle-class Swedes in sum. . .