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.Elizabeth left the hotel shortly after nine on Monday morning after a miserable “English” breakfast of hard rolls and black tea.The graciousness had gone out of the hotel as she remembered it; like others in the city, the hotelkeepers had been hit hard by the recessions of the middle 1970s and had cut back on amenities that guests had long expected.Elizabeth noticed it but didn’t care terribly; she retrieved her passport, but when she demanded partial repayment on her advance, they wouldn’t give it to her.She left the hotel frustrated and angry.Gloomy London Monday.The rain had ceased, but it was cold and damp and windy.A block from the hotel, she ducked into a clothing store.With little hesitation, she selected a black sweater and dark slacks and a raincoat.She asked to try the garments on.In a dirty, dim-lit fitting room in the back of the shop, she pulled the new clothes on and bundled up the others in the oversize raincoat.She reappeared, better dressed; the shopkeeper, an old woman with ratty gray hair, looked surprised.“Yer gonna wear them, dearie?”In answer, Elizabeth removed a fistful of pound notes from her purse and paid.“Put these in a bag,” she said, indicating the bundles.If the woman thought to say anything, Elizabeth’s cold voice stopped her.She was a queer one, the old woman thought; the whole area is full of them now, queer ones like her.Elizabeth left the shop and walked quickly to Paddington Station, where she dumped the bundle of old clothes in a trash bin near the station entrance.She felt better now; she had torn a sheet in the hotel and bandaged the wound on her arm.The arm did not hurt as much this morning, and did not appear to be infected.In a way, she felt freer than she had yesterday afternoon, after she realized Devereaux betrayed her.It was better like this, clean, to get away from them all, not to trust another for your safety.Going into the buffet in the station, she ordered tea laced with milk.She sat down at a table with a copy of the Guardian.The story was on page two, not conspicuous, under the Home News section.About a woman named Nettie Perce found murdered on the Dover train.Police were currently seeking a brown-haired female with an American accent for help in their inquiries.The cup shook in her hand; the sense of freedom vanished.Someone had spotted her.The conductor? Or the man with the newspaper who had really warned her by the look on his face when the woman rose to attack her?She had to get out of London this morning.North, away from Dover.Suddenly, she put the tea down and stared through the window of the buffet.There was the same man—from the platform at Victoria Station.The same bulky figure in the same old, soiled raincoat.Elizabeth grabbed her purse and fled out the door, onto the concourse, without looking back.Rushing into Eastbourne Street, she hailed a cab.Her confidence was gone.“Where to, miss?”Where to? Away.“Oh.” She seemed to fumble in her purse for an address.But there was no place.“Piccadilly Circus,” she said at last.It was a place at least.Fifteen minutes later, the cab deposited her on a corner of Piccadilly Circus, in the congestion of pigeons, cars, noise, and flashing signs.She paid again and stood for a moment on the sidewalk.How could she tell if she had been followed?She started down the block, her shoes clapping loudly on the pavement.People stopped and turned to stare at the distraught figure with pale face and wild eyes.Elizabeth turned into Haymarket and began to hurry along towards Trafalgar Square.She had to leave London.She didn’t know the trains—but she had been in Paddington Station long enough to see there were trains for Wales.Wales would be safe.If they had followed her, they would not expect her to double back on herself.Ten minutes later, she entered Paddington Station again and went to the ticket counter.A train for Cardiff was scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes.She bought a ticket.Realizing that she might get hungry on the long trip, she went into the buffet and bought two sandwich rounds and stuffed them in the pockets of her tan raincoat.“Please may I speak to you?”She turned.It was him again; the man from the platform at Victoria Station, whom she’d spotted a half hour before.He was standing next to her at the end of the checkout line in the buffet, holding a copy of the Daily Mirror.She wanted to run.Perhaps he understood that; he took her arm, gently.“Please,” he said again.“Don’t be good enough to run away again.”“How did you follow me?”“Ah,” he said.And he laughed.“I cannot.There was no cab.So I waited and hoped you would come again to the station because I did not know where to look for you.”Suddenly, it all seemed hopeless to her.“Who are you?”He still held her arm, but held it gently.“I am Mr.Dennis,” he said.“I am with British Intelligence.Actually, the name is more formal but it is enough.I want to speak to you.May I buy you a cup of tea?”“My train—”“Please,” he said.“I have to go.I don’t know you.”“No, Elizabeth.But I know you.Please, let me call you Elizabeth.To make you comfortable.Because Americans want to be called of their Christian names.I am Mr.Dennis.”She was frightened; her face was chalky; he held her as lightly as a child would hold a bird—and as firmly.What was the use? “Should I give up?”“No, no.Never give up.That is surrender,” the man said.His face was broad and smiling, his blue eyes were clear and guileless behind the rimless glasses.“Please,” she said.“That woman wanted to kill me.”“I know, Elizabeth.It’s all right.We know all about it.I am going to help you.Please trust to me.” He ordered two teas and paid with his right hand, still holding her with his left.“Please,” he said again.She picked up her tea.She could throw it in his face—“Please don’t do that,” he said, as though he read her thoughts.“Here, I will release your arm.I merely did not want you to be frightened when I spoke to you, to run away as you did before.I must speak to you.But don’t throw your tea at me—if you must run away, leave my face as it is.”But she did not run away.They sat down at a plastic table.Elizabeth sipped her tea for a moment.“What do you want?” she said at last.He looked at her shyly and smiled again; one of his large hands reached across the plastic table top and took hers.Her hands were pale and cold.He held her hand and warmed it.“To help you,” Denisov said.22WASHINGTONThe deal had been made Sunday, after Devereaux’s telephone call, after another meeting between Hanley and the Chief of Section.It appeared to be satisfactory.Of course, Hanley didn’t know all the details.But the Old Man assured him that Operation Mirror was closed down, that the threat to the Section was over.He had even congratulated Hanley and mentioned something about a citation (a secret citation, of course) for Devereaux.What about the opening to British Intelligence?Ah, explained Galloway.That was part of the deal.The CIA remained in place, all was status quo as far as the Limeys were concerned.In exchange, all present and future moves to discredit R Section were abdicated by the CIA
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