Authors: Daniel Silva

The Unlikely Spy (33 page)

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy

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Why was Pope there? Catherine thought she knew the answer. Pope was there because he suspected Catherine was involved in his brother's murder. Finding her would not be difficult for him. Pope knew Catherine was looking for Peter Jordan. All he had to do was go to the places frequented by Peter Jordan, and there was a good chance Catherine would appear.

She turned her back to him. She was not afraid of Robert Pope; he was more a nuisance than a threat. As long as she remained in full view he would be reluctant to take action against her. Catherine had expected this. As a precaution she had started carrying her pistol at all times. It was necessary but annoying. She had to carry a larger handbag to conceal the weapon. It was heavy and banged against her hip when she walked. The gun, ironically, was also a threat to her security. Try explaining to a London police officer why you're carrying a German-made Mauser pistol equipped with a silencer.

Deciding whether to kill Robert Pope was not Catherine Blake's biggest worry, for at that moment Peter Jordan walked into the bar of the Savoy along with Shepherd Ramsey.

She wondered which man would make the first move. Things were about to get interesting.

"I'll say one good thing about this war," Shepherd Ramsey said, as he and Peter Jordan sat down at a corner table. "It's done wonders for my net worth. While I've been over here playing hero, my stocks have been soaring. I've made more money during the past six months than I did for ten years working at Dad's insurance company."

"Why don't you tell old Dad to shove off ?"

"He'd be lost without me."

Shepherd signaled the waiter and ordered a martini. Jordan ordered a double scotch.

"Tough day at the office, honey?"

"Brutal."

"The rumor mill says you're working on a diabolical new secret weapon."

"I'm an engineer, Shep. I build bridges and roads."

"Any idiot could do that. You're not over here building a goddamned highway."

"No, I'm not."

"So when are you going to tell me what you're working on?"

"I can't. You know I can't."

"It's just me, old Shep. You can tell me anything."

"I'd love to, Shepherd, but if I told you I'd have to kill you, and then Sally would be a widow and Kippy would have no father."

"Kippy's in trouble at Buckley again. Goddamned kid gets in more trouble than I did."

"Now that's saying something."

"The headmaster's threatening to throw him out. Sally had to go over the other day and listen to a lecture about how Kippy needs a strong male influence in his life."

"I never knew he had one."

"Very funny, asshole. Sally's having trouble with the car. Says the thing needs tires but she can't buy new ones because of rationing. Says they couldn't open up the Oyster Bay house for Christmas this year because there was no fuel oil to heat the damned thing."

Shepherd noticed Jordan was studying his drink.

"I'm sorry, Peter. Am I boring you?"

"No more than usual."

"I just thought some news from home might cheer you up."

"Who says I need cheering up?"

"Peter Jordan, I haven't seen that look on your face in a very long time. Who is she?"

"I have no idea."

"Would you like to explain that?"

"I bumped into her in the blackout, literally. Knocked her groceries out of her arms. It was very embarrassing. But there was something about her."

"Did you get her telephone number?"

"No."

"How about a name?"

"Yes, I got a name."

"Well, that's something. Jesus Christ! I'd say you're a little out of practice. Tell me how she looked."

Peter Jordan told him: tall, brown hair falling across her shoulders, a wide mouth, beautiful cheekbones, and the most spectacular eyes he had ever seen.

"That's interesting," Shepherd said.

"Why?"

"Because
that
woman is standing right over there."

Men in uniform generally made Catherine Blake nervous. But as Peter Jordan crossed the bar toward her she thought she had never seen a man look quite so handsome as he did in his dark blue American naval uniform. He was a strikingly attractive man--she had not noticed how attractive the previous evening. His uniform jacket fitted him perfectly through his square shoulders and chest, as though it had been cut for him by a tailor in Manhattan. He was trim at the waist, and his walk had a smooth confidence about it that only self-possessed, successful men have. His hair was dark, nearly black, and in striking contrast to his pale complexion. His eyes were a distracting shade of green--pale green, like a cat's--his mouth soft and sensuous. It broke into an easy smile when he noticed she was looking at him.

"I believe I bumped into you in the blackout last night," he said, and stuck out his hand. "My name is Peter Jordan."

She took his hand, then absently allowed her fingernails to trail across the palm of his hand when she released her grip.

"My name is Catherine Blake," she said.

"Yes, I remember. You look as though you're waiting for someone."

"I am, but it appears he's stood me up."

"Well, I'd say he's a damned fool then."

"He's just an old friend, actually."

"Can I buy you that drink now?" Jordan asked.

Catherine looked at Jordan and smiled; then she glanced across the bar at Robert Pope, who was watching them intently.

"Actually, I would love to go somewhere a little more quiet to talk. Do you still have all that food at your house?"

"A couple of eggs, some cheese, maybe a can of tomatoes. And lots of wine."

"Sounds like the makings of a wonderful omelet to me."

"Let me get my coat."

Robert Pope, standing at the bar, watched them as they slipped through the crowd and into the salon. He calmly finished his drink, waited a few seconds, then left the bar and trailed quietly after them. Outside the hotel, they were shown into a cab by the doorman. Pope, walking quickly across the street, watched the cab drive away. Dicky Dobbs was sitting behind the wheel of the van. He started the motor as Pope climbed inside. The van slipped away from the curb, into the evening traffic. No need to rush, Pope told Dicky. He knew where they were headed. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a few minutes as Dicky drove westward toward Jordan's town house in Kensington.

During the taxi ride to Peter Jordan's house, Catherine Blake realized quite suddenly that she was nervous. It was not because a man who possessed the most important secret of the war was sitting next to her. She was just not very good at this--the rituals of courtship and dating. For the first time in a very long time she thought about her appearance. She knew she was an attractive woman--a beautiful woman. She knew most men desired her. But during her time in Britain she had gone to great lengths to conceal her appearance, to blend in. She had adopted the look of an aggrieved war widow: heavy dark stockings that hid the shape of her long legs, poor-fitting skirts that masked the curve of her hips, chunky mannish sweaters that concealed her rounded breasts. Tonight, she was dressed in a striking gown she had bought before the war, appropriate for drinks at the Savoy. Even so, for the first time in her life, Catherine worried about whether she was pretty enough.

Something else was bothering Catherine. Why did it take circumstances like these for her finally to be with a man like Peter Jordan? He was intelligent and attractive and successful and--well, apparently
normal.
Most of the other men Catherine had known would be behaving very differently by now. She remembered the first time with Maria Romero's father, Emilio. He had not bothered with flowers or romance; he barely even kissed her. He just pushed her down onto the bed and fucked her. And Catherine had not minded. In fact, she rather liked it that way. Sex was not something to be done out of love and respect. She didn't even enjoy the conquest. For Catherine it was an act of pure physical gratification. Emilio Romero understood; unfortunately, Emilio understood many things about her.

She had given up long ago on the idea of falling in love, getting married, and having children. Her obsessive independence and deeply ingrained mistrust of people would never allow her to make the emotional commitment to a marriage; her selfishness and self-indulgence would never permit her to care for a child. She never felt safe with a man unless she was in total control, emotionally and physically. These feelings manifested themselves in the act of sex itself. Catherine had discovered long ago that she was incapable of having an orgasm unless she was on top.

She had formed an image of the kind of life she wanted for herself. When the war was over she would go somewhere warm--the Costa del Sol, the south of France, Italy perhaps--and buy herself a small villa overlooking the sea. She would live alone and cut off her hair and lie on the beach until her skin was deep brown, and if she needed a man she would bring him to her villa and use his body until she was satisfied and then she would throw him out and sit by her fire and be alone again with the sound of the sea. Perhaps she would let Maria stay with her sometimes. Maria was the only one who understood her. That's why it hurt Catherine so much that Maria had betrayed her.

Catherine didn't hate herself for the way she was, nor did she love herself. On the few occasions when she had reflected on her own psychology, she had thought of herself as a rather interesting character. She had also come to the realization that she was perfectly suited to being a spy--emotionally, physically, and intellectually. Vogel had recognized this, and so had Emilio. She loathed them both but she could not find fault with their conclusions. When she gazed at her reflection in the mirror now, one word came to mind:
spy.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of Jordan's house. He took her hand to help her out of the car, then paid off the driver. He unlocked the front door to the house and showed her inside. He closed the door before turning on the lights--blackout rules. For an instant Catherine felt disoriented and exposed. She didn't like being in a strange place with a strange man in the dark. Jordan quickly switched on the lights and illuminated the room.

"My goodness," she said. "How did you get a billet like this? I thought all American officers were packed into hotels and boardinghouses."

Catherine knew the answer, of course. But she needed to ask the question. It was rare for an American officer to be living alone in such a place.

"My father-in-law bought the house years ago. He spent a great deal of time in London on both business and pleasure and decided he wanted a pied-a-terre here. I have to admit I'm glad he bought it. The thought of spending the war packed like a sardine in Grosvenor House really doesn't appeal to me. Here, let me take your coat."

He helped her off with her overcoat and went to hang it in the closet. Catherine surveyed the drawing room. It was handsomely furnished with the sort of deep leather couches and chairs one finds in a private London club. The walls were paneled; the wood floors were stained a deep brown and polished to a lustrous shine. The rugs scattered about were of excellent quality. There was one unique feature about the room--the walls were covered with photographs of bridges.

"You're married, then," Catherine said, making sure there was a slight note of disappointment in her voice.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, returning to the room.

"You said your father-in-law owns this house."

"I suppose I should say my former father-in-law. My wife was killed in an automobile accident before the war."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to--"

"Please, it's fine. It was a long time ago."

She nodded toward the wall and said, "You like bridges."

"You might say that, yes. I build them."

Catherine walked across the room and looked at one of the photographs close up. It was the Hudson River bridge for which Jordan had been named Engineer of the Year in 1938.

"You designed these?"

"Actually, architects design them. I'm an engineer. They put a design on paper and I tell them whether the thing will stand up or not. Sometimes I make them change the design. Sometimes, if it's terrific like that one, I find a way to make it work."

"Sounds challenging."

"It can be," he said. "But sometimes it can be tedious and dull, and it makes for boring conversation at cocktail parties."

"I didn't know the navy needed bridges."

"They don't." Jordan hesitated. "I'm sorry. I can't discuss my--"

"Please. Believe me, I understand the rules."

"I could do the cooking, but I couldn't guarantee that the food would be edible."

"Just show me where the kitchen is."

"Through that door. If you don't mind, I'd like to change. I still can't get used to wearing this damned uniform."

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy

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