Hemingway's Notebook (23 page)

Harry Francis was standing in shallow water on the gulf side of the sandbar, watching a shark cruise amiably back and forth in the waters twenty-five feet from where he stood. He held his sandals in his hand. His eyes crinkled in the sunlight; he looked as though he might be smiling.

“Aren’t you afraid of the shark?” Rita asked.

He turned, startled from his reverie. He did smile now, deliberately. “Sand shark.”

“They bite, don’t they?”

“Everything in nature bites,” he said.

“And you’re the old man of the sea,” Rita said with an edge to her voice. She had pitied him the night she saw him dragged across the courtyard by the two
gendarmes
. She had grown to despise him, even after he had helped Devereaux rescue her. There was something so distant and judgmental about him. She had said to Devereaux: He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like women.

“Why do you hate me?” he asked her.

“Because I can see what you are.”

“All right.” He paused. “What do you want?”

“I want him. Two days from now, when the operation is over, I want to see him getting off that boat. If I don’t see him getting off that boat, I’ll kill you.”

He started to smile.

“Don’t smile or laugh at me,” Rita said. “I won’t kill you the first day or even the second. I’ll figure it out, how to do it, and when I’ve got it figured out, I’ll do it so that you know I did it. You’ll see it coming and you won’t be able to get out of the way. If he dies on the island, then you ought to kill yourself because it’ll be easier to take it from yourself than from me.”

“ ‘Stronger in the broken places.’ ”

She waited.

“Hemingway. I know you hate that, but he said sometimes broken bones heal and become stronger because they’ve been broken.”

“No,” said Rita Macklin. “You and Hemingway got it wrong again. You never heal completely. You just learn to live with hurt. You can walk around it, you make it as easy on yourself as you can, but it’s always there. The broken arm never heals. The joints ache on rainy days. You don’t get stronger, you just learn to be tougher because the pain is always with you.” She stared so hard at him that he took a step back into the shallow warm waters.

“I hate you, Harry, I hate you as much as I hate Ready. Dev made his deal with you because he had to and that’s why I walk around you. I hate you because you were on the island from the beginning, because you were Ready’s puppet, because you kept that absurd book about something that happened a long time ago. That stupid goddamn book that Ready wanted bad enough to bring Devereaux into this. To bring me into it. You’re not even a good traitor, you know that? You sold out your great friend Hemingway and you ended up selling out your country to a two-bit dictator like Ready. I’d kill you without a thought, without looking back. You remember that when you go back to St. Michel with Devereaux. You remember that I want to see him alive and that if he’s dead, it’s your fault. That’s what you’ve got to know.”

And when Devereaux saw her, it was nearly midnight. He and Cain had been preparing the
Compass Rose
for the return to St. Michel. Rita was in a chair by the balcony and she was waiting for him.

“It was your fault. Everything that happened to me,” she said.

“Yes.”

“No excuses.”

“No.”

“You let it happen.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Didn’t you love me?”

“Yes. But I let it happen. You’re right.”

“You wanted to be safe,” she said.

“Yes. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted a lot of things and I was willing to take a chance. I was willing to have you take a chance.”

“I know. I know everything. I wanted to see if you knew everything. I want to tell you something. Before you go to St. Michel.”

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“Do you know? I love you. I hated you on the island and I will keep remembering that I hated you for what you let happen. I won’t lie to you. I won’t forget that.”

“No.”

“Dev.” She stared at him. “I don’t want you to kill yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean, I don’t want anything so badly that you have to die for it.”

“I won’t die.”

“I told Harry. I told him that if you died, I’d kill him.”

“I won’t die.”

Colonel Ready got ready for bed just past midnight in the caretaker’s house. There had been more fighting in the hills during the day. Thirteen soldiers had been killed and three more had deserted to Celezon. He would sleep exactly three hours and be up again.

The Cuban emissary had kept him from sleep, had threatened and bullied about the notebook, had demanded the money back that the Cuban government had paid for the book. It was tiring but in the end he had accepted Colonel Ready’s refusals.

St. Michel had worked well for a long time but now it wasn’t working and there was nothing more to take out of St. Michel. In a little while, Colonel Ready would go to Switzerland and find his money and live a life of retirement. It was the last way of escape if all other ways were closed.

He unlocked his front door, nodded to the two security guards, and locked the door behind him.

The security personnel at the Aerodrome St. Michel had picked up another American that morning. He was smuggling an Uzi submachine-gun pistol into the country. He had broken easily. His name was Lemont and he had been hired by someone in New York to assassinate the man called Colonel Ready. It was all he knew. He’d been killed in the cells while Ready slept.

He dropped his pistol and holster on the table and began to unbutton his tunic. He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Kronenbourg and opened it. He drank the cold liquid, the first of the long day.

Devereaux said, “You made me wait a long time.”

The red-haired man turned in the little kitchen and stared at the man in the darkened doorway that led to the living room. The other man had a pistol, a Colt Python with an extremely long black barrel.

Colonel Ready flushed. His white scar brightened against the blush in his cheek.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he said.

“Your two guards are dead,” said Devereaux. “I didn’t come alone. I brought a friend of yours. Harry Francis.”

“I still have papers on you. I can still send them to CIA. Remember?”

Devereaux’s voice was low, very soft. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t do anything with them. There’s no way to escape this time, Ready. It’s not like Nam. It’s not like any other time. Everything is cut off.”

“Can I sit down?”

“You can take all your clothes off,” said Devereaux.

“Pardon?”

“Strip,” said Devereaux.

Colonel Ready put down the bottle of Kronenbourg and stared at Devereaux and then, smiling, finished unbuttoning his tunic. He removed the shirt. He wore no undershirt. He took off his shoes and socks. He unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall. He stepped out of his trousers. He stood still.

“Strip,” said Devereaux.

“Want a gander at my cock? Is that it?”

“Strip,” Devereaux said again in the same cold, uninflected voice that was almost a whisper.

The smile faded.

He pulled down his boxer shorts and stepped out of them. He stood naked in the bright light of the kitchen. His face and arms were weathered by sun but his belly and genitals were strangely pale, as though the parts of the body did not fit together or belonged to different people.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Devereaux said.

“I have enough money to—”

“To bribe me.”

And Ready smiled. “You impotent bastard, I fucked your whore for you with this.” He held his penis. “Shoved it good in her and I had a good time. I beat the living shit out of her and fucked her good and I had a good time with her. She liked it. I knew she liked it. When it was over, I asked her if she liked it and she said she did.”

“Get on the floor. On your belly,” Devereaux said and there was no change in the note in his voice.

“You cowardly bastard, you fucking coward. I would have given it to you in the belly at least. Face to face.”

“Get on the floor.”

“When I die, the stuff goes to Langley. Just like that. The stuff about November.”

“You know everything about November,” Devereaux said.

“Damn right.”

“Harry Francis is writing a book. He’s nearly finished. About Hemingway in Cuba and the way he was used by the CIA. It’s a good book; I’ve read parts of the manuscript. Langley is upset.”

“Damn right they’d be.”

“Langley thinks Harry lives here. On the island. That’s where the manuscript was mailed from. Yesterday. It’s in Miami by now and New York by the end of the week. With the colorful stamp of St. Michel on the envelope. And the postmark.”

“Damn it. Harry isn’t here.”

“Tell Langley that,” said Devereaux. “Get on the floor.”

“You bastard.” He was thinking very fast now. Devereaux was about six feet away from him. There was a trick that involved the feet—

“I wish you would,” Devereaux said. “I’d like to hurt you.”

“You are an impotent sadist.”

“And you’re dead,” said Devereaux. “I gave you the wrong notebook but there really was a notebook. I fixed you with Mr. Weisman. Anthony and I. He wants to kill you. Has he tried yet? I know he has. He’ll do anything to kill you. And until he stops trying, he’ll be safe. From prosecution, I mean, for his other crimes. And Anthony is safe now. And Rita.”

For the first time, the voice caught and Ready began to smile again.

“Rita wrote an article and it’s about Sister Mary Columbo and what happened in St. Michel and what you threatened her with. She has some courage. The Vatican has sent an inquiry officer to Miami to speak with Simon Bouvier. The funds—the funds for medicine, for building—are being held up. Everyone is asking questions now.”

“That’s temporary.”

“There’s always more. Celezon only needs time and he’s going to win. You gave Havana the wrong book and they bought it. CIA thinks you’re behind Harry’s novel. And you just don’t have any credibility any more. With anyone. So get down on the floor because I told you to do it.”

“Rita Macklin,” Ready said.

“Yes,” Devereaux said. “That’s what you have to pay for. If it wasn’t for that, I might not have to hurt you at all.”

He got down on the stone floor and put his hands behind his neck as Devereaux had demanded. He lay there a moment.

“You queer bastard. Are you going to fuck me?”

“I want to give you some advice. Because we were in the old business together. When you start running, you have to be very good or there’s no point in running at all. You have to be as good as I was. They might be just a step or two behind you and you won’t know it. You need luck. I had some luck. And if your luck runs out, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I’m not running.”

“Yes. You have to. The Soviets especially, now that they know November is still alive.”

“I’m not November.”

“The name in the record never changes. The Soviets know our system. You’re November because our files say that you are November.”

“You’re crazy.”

“When you start running, you’ll have more problems than I did. There were just the Soviets when I was running. But there are other problems. You have Mr. Weisman. And CIA. Don’t forget Langley. You screwed them and they never forget. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have a contract on you as well. Everyone is against you. Even the Cubans who really wanted to be your friends.”

“All I have to do—”

“Is tell them the truth?” The voice was harsher now. “You’re so wrapped in lies the truth couldn’t penetrate. The Soviets know about you already. There’s someone in St. Michel now from KGB. Did you know that?”

“You’re lying.”

“Perhaps,” said Devereaux.

“They were after you.”

“KGB doesn’t make mistakes.”

Devereaux stood behind Ready’s naked body stretched on the floor.

“There was an agent named November who had harmed KGB. He was involved in turning a Soviet agent named Denisov in Florida. That was you, wasn’t it, colonel? You were November then. You were always November. And when an R Section agent died in Zurich in a fire, the Section tried to make it seem as though he had been November so that the wet contract would be called off. I was asleep, Ready, and you woke me.”

“I—I was wrong, perhaps, there are ways to—”

“No. No ways anymore.”

“The papers on you. In my desk.”

“I know. I took them.”

“We’re even. Quits.”

Devereaux said nothing.

“Man, I’ve got money in banks and—”

“I know. You gave me some of it once. I was telling you about the man who was November. He really wasn’t dead. He was really Colonel Ready. So Colonel Ready went to London three weeks ago. He gave in his passport at customs. He was seen in all the right intelligence circles. A man with red hair and a scar and he used the account number of November to buy information from Economic Review. He was very bold and open. He left a trail from Switzerland to London to Miami and down to St. Michel. He used November’s American Express card, the one that was supposed to be inactive, the one that is billed to R Section. You can’t make it too easy for KGB, they’ll suspect a trap. But I think it was just hard enough. You wanted me to work for you in St. Michel because you wanted to use me for everything that went wrong. And it turned out it was the easiest and surest way to make November really dead. He became you.”

“This is madness, this—”

“Harry Francis has a notebook he gave to the Section. It was written in code by Ernest Hemingway. There’s no doubt about it. It was all about the CIA and how it double-crossed its own government to get Castro and how CIA was going to try again on St. Michel, a dress rehearsal for another Cuban invasion. It involved a man named November who took Cuban money and arms and then double-crossed the Cubans with a phony book and double-crossed CIA and double-crossed the crime syndicate, a man who could not be trusted, a man on everyone’s death list. That is who November is now. You are November.”

“You can’t get away with it because you can’t kill me, it would be too easy to kill November again, nobody would believe this twice—”

“Unless they had the body. Unless they had the bona fides, you might say,” Devereaux said. “Harry is writing fiction under an assumed name. They are true novels. They really happened but, of course, they’re only fiction. CIA knows that Harry was working for you. You were R Section all the time, a mole inside our sister service. November was a very clever agent, don’t you think?”

“I can give you a million Swiss francs.”

“No. It’s not enough.” He paused and listened to the echo of his words and heard Rita’s voice. It was not enough to kill him.

“Devereaux. I know why you want to do this. I didn’t do it. I didn’t rape her, no matter what she said, she went crazy, there was a soldier, he raped her in the cells, I came in, I had him shot, I can show you the grave, you have to listen to me.”

Devereaux took out the knife that Flaubert had given him. It was sharp and curved and the blade was so thin that it would be dulled after one use.

Devereaux knelt on one knee between Ready’s naked legs and pressed the pistol between Ready’s cheeks until the mouth of the barrel rested on his anus.

“Jesus,” said Ready.

“Don’t move.”

Ready felt the weight of the pistol against him.

“A man should leave footprints. I left your footprints in Europe. Through London, through Miami. It was a little but not enough. You have to leave footprints now.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the hunters who will follow the trail.”

And he cut across the Achilles tendon that was stretched behind Ready’s right ankle. He cut very hard and very deep. The tendon fought the blade for a moment and then it was through and Devereaux’s knuckles were white with the strain of cutting through flesh and sinew.

For a moment, Ready only felt the pistol and then it was withdrawn and he wondered what had happened.

And then he screamed.

He screamed and crawled across the floor and the blood oozed from his ankle and trailed behind him. He pulled himself to where Devereaux had stood. But he was gone.

Harry and Devereaux were down in the hillside already, screened by the woods behind the house, and they were running and they could hear the screams following them.