Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (49 page)
"Upstairs sleeping."
"Dumb bastard," Harry said, his voice lowered.
"He's
our
dumb bastard now, Harry. Don't forget that. What have you got?"
our
dumb bastard now, Harry. Don't forget that. What have you got?"
"Fingerprints."
"What?"
"Fingerprints, latent fingerprints from someone other than Peter Jordan, all over the inside of that study. On the desk, on the exterior of the safe. He says the cleaning lady was never allowed to go in. We should assume those latent fingerprints were left by Catherine Blake."
Vicary shook his head slowly.
"Jordan's house is ready to go," Harry continued. "We put so many microphones in that place you can hear a mouse fart. We evicted the family across the street and established a static post. The view is perfect. Anyone goes near that house gets their picture taken."
"What about Catherine Blake?"
"We traced her telephone number to a flat in Earl's Court. We took over a flat in the building opposite."
"Good work, Harry."
Harry looked at Vicary a long moment, then said, "Don't take this the wrong way, Alfred, but you look like hell."
"I can't remember the last time I slept. What's keeping you going?"
"A couple of Benzedrine and ten quarts of tea."
"I'm going to have a bite to eat, then try to get some sleep. What about you?"
"Actually, I had plans for the evening."
"Grace Clarendon?"
"She asked me to dinner. I thought I'd take the opportunity. I don't think we're going to have much free time the next few weeks."
Vicary rose and poured himself another cup of tea. "Harry, I don't want to take advantage of your relationship with Grace, but I'm wondering if she could do me a favor. I'd like her to run a couple of names quietly through Registry and see what comes up."
"I'll ask her. What are the names?"
Vicary carried his tea across the room and stood in front of the fire next to Harry.
"Peter Jordan, Walker Hardegen, and anyone or anything called Broome."
Grace never liked to eat before making love. Afterward Harry lay in her bed, smoking a cigarette, listening to Glenn Miller on the gramophone and the clatter of Grace cooking in her tiny kitchen. She came back into the bedroom ten minutes later. She wore a robe, loosely tied at her slender waist, and carried a tray with their supper on it: soup and bread. Harry sat up against the headboard and Grace leaned against the footboard. The tray was between them. She handed him a bowl of the soup. It was nearly midnight and they both were starved. Harry loved to watch her--the way she seemed to take such pleasure from the simple meal. The way her robe parted to reveal her taut, perfect body.
She noticed him looking at her and said, "What are you thinking, Harry Dalton?"
"I was thinking how much I never want this to end. I was thinking how much I wish every night of my life could be just like this."
Her face became very grave; she was absolutely incapable of hiding her emotions. When she was happy her face seemed to light up. When she was angry her green eyes smoldered. And when she was sad, like now, her body became very still.
"You mustn't say things like that, Harry. It's against the rules."
"I know it's against the rules, but it's the truth."
"Sometimes it's better to keep the truth to yourself. If you don't say it out loud, it doesn't hurt so much."
"Grace, I think I'm in love--"
She slammed down her spoon on the tray. "Jesus, Harry! Don't say things like that! You make it so damned hard sometimes. First you say you can't see me because you're feeling guilty, and now you're telling me you're in love with me."
"I'm sorry, Grace, it's just the truth. I thought we could always tell each other the truth."
"All right, here's the truth. I'm married to a wonderful man I care for very much and don't want to hurt. But I've fallen desperately in love with a detective-turned-spycatcher named Harry Dalton. And when this damned war is over I have to give him up. And it hurts like bloody hell every time I let myself think about it." Her eyes welled with tears. "Now shut up and eat your soup. Please. Let's talk about something else. I'm stuck in dreary Registry all day with Jago and his wretched pipe. I want to know what's going on in the rest of the world."
"All right. I have a favor to ask of you."
"What kind of favor?"
"A professional favor."
She smiled at him wickedly. "Damn, I was hoping it was a sexual favor."
"I need you to quietly run a couple of names through the Registry index. See if anything comes up."
"Sure, what are they?"
Harry told her.
"Okay, I'll see what I can find."
She finished the soup, leaned back, and watched Harry while he ate the rest of his soup. When he was done she stacked the dishes on the tray and set the tray on the floor next to the bed. She turned out the lights and lit a candle on the bedstand. She took off her robe, and she made love to him in a way she never had before: slowly, patiently, as if his body were made of crystal. Her eyes never strayed from his face. When it was over she fell forward onto his chest, her body limp and damp, her warm breath against his neck.
"You wanted the truth, Harry. That's the truth."
"I have to be honest with you, Grace. It didn't hurt."
It began a few minutes past ten o'clock the following morning when Peter Jordan, standing in the upstairs library of Vicary's house in West Halkin Street, dialed the number for Catherine Blake's flat. For a long time the recording of this one-minute conversation held the distinction of the most listened-to wiretap in the history of the Imperial Security Service. Vicary himself would listen to the damned thing a hundred times, searching for imperfections like a master jeweler examining a diamond for flaws. Boothby did the same. A copy of the recording was rushed back to St. James's Street by motorcycle courier, and for one hour the red light burned over Sir Basil's door as he listened over and over again.
The first time Vicary heard only Jordan. He was standing a few feet away, his back politely turned, his eyes fixed on the fire.
"Listen, I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to call sooner. I've just been busy as hell. I was out of town a day longer than I expected, and there was no way for me to call."
Silence, while she tells him there's no need to apologize.
"I missed you very much. I thought about you the entire time I was away."
Silence, while she tells him she missed him terribly and can't wait to see him again.
"I want to see you too. In fact, that's why I'm calling. I booked us a table at the Mirabelle. I hope you're free for lunch."
Silence, while she tells him that sounds wonderful.
"Good. I'll meet you there at one o'clock."
Silence, while she says she loves him very much.
"I love you too, darling."
Jordan was quiet when it was over. Vicary, watching him, was reminded of Karl Becker and the dark mood he slipped into whenever Vicary forced him to send a Double Cross message. They killed the rest of the morning with chess. Jordan played a precise mathematical match; Vicary engaged in deception and subterfuge. While they played they could hear the banter of the watchers and the clatter of the typists downstairs in the situation room. Jordan was beating Vicary badly so Vicary resigned.
At noon Jordan went to his room and dressed in his uniform. At twelve fifteen he walked out the rear door of the house and clambered into the back of a department van. Vicary and Harry settled into their places downstairs in the situation room while Jordan was driven at speed up Park Lane like a high-security prisoner. He was taken to a secluded rear door of SHAEF headquarters in Blackburn Street and went inside. For the next six minutes, no one from Vicary's team saw him.
Jordan emerged from the front entrance of SHAEF at 12:35. He walked across the square, a briefcase chained to his wrist, and vanished into another doorway. This time his absence was ten minutes. When he reappeared, the briefcase was gone. From Grosvenor Square he walked to South Audley Street and from South Audley Street to Curzon Street. During his journey he was quietly shadowed by three of the department's best watchers, Clive Roach, Tony Blair, and Leonard Reeves. None of them saw any signs that Jordan was under surveillance by the opposition.
At 12:55 Jordan arrived at the Mirabelle. He waited outside, just as Vicary had instructed him to do. At precisely one o'clock a taxi braked to a halt in front of the restaurant and a tall, attractive woman stepped into view. Ginger Bradshaw, the department's best surveillance photographer, was crouched in the back of a department van parked across the street; as Catherine Blake took Peter Jordan's hand and kissed his cheek, he quickly shot six photographs. The film was rushed back to West Halkin Street, and the prints were sitting in front of Vicary in the situation room by the time they had finished lunch.
When it was over Blair would say it was his fault; Reeves said no, it was his. Roach, being the senior man, took responsibility himself. All three agreed she was a cut above every other German agent they had ever followed: the best, bar none. And if they ever made a mistake, got too close, fingers would surely be burned.
After leaving the Mirabelle, Catherine and Peter walked together back to Grosvenor Square. They stopped on the southwest corner of the square and talked for two minutes. Ginger Bradshaw took several more photographs, including one of their very brief kiss good-bye. When Jordan walked away, Catherine flagged down a taxi and climbed inside. Blair, Roach, and Reeves jumped into the surveillance van and followed the taxi east to Regent Street. The taxi then headed north to Oxford Street, where Catherine paid off the cabbie and climbed out.
Later, Roach would call her stroll along Oxford Street the best demonstration of streetcraft he had ever seen. She paused in at least a half dozen storefronts. She doubled back twice, once so quickly that Blair had to dive into a cafe to get out of the way. At Tottenham Court Road she descended into the underground and purchased a ticket for Waterloo. Roach and Reeves both managed to get on the train with her--Roach, twenty feet away in the same car, Reeves in the next one. When the doors opened at Leicester Square she remained still, as if she were going to continue on; then suddenly she stood up and stepped onto the platform. Roach had to squeeze through the closing doors to stay with her. Reeves was stuck on the train; he was out of the game.
She melted into the crowd on the staircase and Roach lost her momentarily. When she reached street level she quickly crossed Charing Cross Road and took the stairs back into the Leicester Square Station.
Roach could have sworn he saw her climb onto a waiting bus, and for the rest of the afternoon he berated himself for making such a stupid mistake. He rushed across the street and jumped onto the bus as it pulled away from the curb. Ten seconds later he realized he had the wrong woman. He got off the bus at the next stop and telephoned Vicary at West Halkin Street to tell him she had given them the slip.
"Clive Roach has never lost a German agent before," Boothby said, glaring at the watch report that evening in his office. He looked up at Vicary. "The man could follow a gnat through Hampstead Heath."
"He's the best. She's just damned good."
"Look at this: a taxi, a long walk to check her tail, and then into the underground, where she buys a ticket for one station and gets out at another."
"She's extremely careful. That's why we've never caught on to her."
"There's another explanation, Alfred. It's possible she spotted the tail."
"I know. I've thought about that possibility."
"And if that's the case, the entire operation is blown even before it's started." Boothby tapped the thin metal attache case containing the first batch of Kettledrum material. "If she knows she's under surveillance and we give her this, we might as well publish the secret of the invasion in the
Daily Mail
under a bloody banner headline. They'll know they're being deceived. And if they know they're being deceived, they'll know the opposite is true."
Daily Mail
under a bloody banner headline. They'll know they're being deceived. And if they know they're being deceived, they'll know the opposite is true."
"Roach is convinced she didn't spot him."
"Where is she now?"
"She's in her flat."
"What time is she supposed to meet Jordan?"
"Ten o'clock, at Jordan's house. He told her he was working late tonight."
"What were Jordan's impressions?"
"He said he detected no change in her demeanor, no sign of nerves or tension." Vicary paused. "He's good, our Commander Jordan, damned good. If he weren't such an excellent engineer, he'd make a marvelous spy."
Boothby tapped the metal attache case with his thick forefinger. "If she spotted the tail, why is she sitting in her flat? Why isn't she making a run for it?"
Vicary said, "Perhaps she wants to see what's inside that briefcase."
"It's not too late, Alfred. We don't have to go through with this. We can arrest her right now and think of some other way to repair the damage."
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