Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (74 page)
There was a neatness to it, a closure about the whole thing that Dorothy found comforting. It was warm again, and soon it would be summer. The houses would all be opening soon, and the parties would begin. Life goes on, she told herself. Margaret and Peter are gone, but life most definitely goes on.
63
GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND: SEPTEMBER 1944
Even Alfred Vicary was surprised at the speed with which he was able to drop out. Technically, it was an administrative leave pending the findings of the internal inquiry. Vicary understood that was gobbledygook for a sacking.
Perversely he took Basil Boothby's advice and fled to his aunt Matilda's house--he could never get used to the notion it was his--to sort himself out. The first days of his exile were appalling. He missed the camaraderie of MI5. He missed his wretched little office. He even found himself missing his camp bed, for he had lost the gift of sound sleep. He blamed it on Matilda's sagging double bed--too soft, too much room to wrestle with his troubled thoughts. In a rare flash of inspiration, he went to the village store and purchased a new camp bed. He erected it in the drawing room next to the fire, an odd location, he knew, but he had no plans for guests. From that night on he slept as well as could be expected.
He endured a long blue period of inactivity. But in the spring, when the weather warmed, he focused his boundless wasted energy on his new home. The watchers who paid the occasional visit looked on in horror as Vicary attacked his garden with pruning shears, a sickle, and his half-moon eyeglasses. They watched in amazement as he repainted the interior of the cottage. Considerable debate erupted over his choice of color, a bright institutional white. Did it mean his mood was improving, or was he making a hospital of his home and checking in for an extended stay?
There was also a good deal of concern in the village. Poole, the man from the general shop, diagnosed Vicary's mood as one of bereavement. "Not possible," said Plenderleith, the man from the nursery who advised Vicary on his garden. "Never been married, never been in love apparently." Miss Lazenby from the dress shop declared them both wrong. "Poor man's in love, any fool can see that. And by the looks of him the object of his devotion isn't returning the favor."
Vicary, even had he known of the debate, could not have settled it, for he was as much a stranger to his own emotions as those who witnessed them. The head of his department at University College sent him a letter. He had heard Vicary was no longer working at the War Office and was wondering when he might be coming back. Vicary tore the letter in half and burned it in the fireplace.
London held nothing for him--only bad memories--so he stayed away. He went just once, a morning in the first week of June, when Sir Basil summoned him to hear the results of the internal review.
"Hello, Alfred!" Sir Basil called out as Vicary was shown into Boothby's office. The room was ablaze in a fine orange light. Boothby was standing at the precise center of the floor, as though he wanted room to maneuver in all directions. He wore a perfectly cut gray suit and seemed taller than Vicary remembered. The director-general was sitting on the handsome couch, fingers interlaced as if in prayer, eyes fixed on some spot in the Persian carpet. Boothby thrust out his right hand like a bayonet and advanced on Vicary. By the chaotic smile on Boothby's face, Vicary wasn't sure if he was planning to embrace him or assault him. And he wasn't sure which he feared more.
What Boothby
did
do was shake Vicary's hand a little too affectionately and lay a big paw on Vicary's shoulder. It was hot and damp, as though he had just finished a set of tennis. He personally served Vicary tea and made small talk while Vicary smoked a last cigarette. Then, with considerable ceremony, he removed the review board's final report from his desk and laid it on the table. Vicary refused to look at it directly.
did
do was shake Vicary's hand a little too affectionately and lay a big paw on Vicary's shoulder. It was hot and damp, as though he had just finished a set of tennis. He personally served Vicary tea and made small talk while Vicary smoked a last cigarette. Then, with considerable ceremony, he removed the review board's final report from his desk and laid it on the table. Vicary refused to look at it directly.
Boothby took too much pleasure in explaining to Vicary that he was not permitted to read the review of his own operation. Instead, Boothby showed Vicary a sanitized single-page letter purporting to "condense and summarize" the contents of the report. Vicary held it in both hands, the paper tight as a drum, so it would not shake while he read it. It was a vile, obscene document, but challenging it now would do no good. He handed it back to Boothby, shook his hand and then the director-general's, and went out.
Vicary walked downstairs. Someone else was in his office. Harry was there, an ugly scar along his jaw. Vicary was not one for long farewells. He told Harry he had been sacked, thanked him for everything, and said good-bye.
It was raining again and cold for June. The head of Transport offered Vicary a car. Vicary politely refused. He put up his umbrella and drifted back to Chelsea through the pouring rain.
He spent the night at his house in Chelsea. He awakened at dawn, rain rattling against the windows. It was June 6. He switched on the BBC to listen to the news and heard that the invasion was on.
Vicary went out at midday expecting to see nervous crowds and anxious chatter, but London was dead quiet. A few people ventured out to shop; a few went into churches to pray. Taxis cruised the empty streets in search of fares.
Vicary watched Londoners as they went about their day. He wanted to run up and shake them and say, Don't you know what's happening? Don't you realize what it took? Don't you know the clever, wicked things we did to deceive them?
Don't you know what they did to me?
Don't you know what they did to me?
He took his supper at the corner pub and listened to the upbeat bulletins on the wireless. That night, alone again, he listened to the King's address to the nation; then he went to bed. In the morning he took a taxi to Paddington Station and caught the first train back to Gloucestershire.
Gradually, by summer, his days took on a careful routine.
He rose early and read until lunch, which he took each day in the village at the Eight Bells: vegetable pie, beer, meat when it was on the menu. From the Eight Bells he would set off for his daily forced march over the breezy footpaths around the village. Each day it took a little less time for the cobwebs to clear from his ruined knee, and by August he was walking ten miles each afternoon. He gave up cigarettes and took up a pipe. The rituals of the pipe--the loading, the cleaning, the lighting, and the relighting--fitted his new life perfectly.
He was not aware of the exact day it happened--the day it all faded from his conscious thoughts: his cramped office, the clatter of the teleprinters, the vile food in the canteen, the crazy lexicon of the place: Double Cross . . . Mulberry . . . Phoenix . . . Kettledrum. Even Helen receded to a sealed chamber of his memory where she could do no more harm. Alice Simpson started coming on weekends and stayed for an entire week in early August.
On the last day of summer he was overcome by the gentle melancholia that afflicts country people when the warm weather is ending. It was a glorious dusk, the horizon streaked in purple and orange, the first bite of autumn in the air. The primroses and bluebells were long gone. He remembered an evening like this half a lifetime ago when Brendan Evans taught him to ride a motorcycle along the pathways of the Fens. It was not quite cold enough for fires, but from his hilltop perch he could see the chimneys of the village gently smoking and taste the sharp scent of green wood on the air.
He saw it then, played out on the hillsides, like the solution of a chess problem. He could see the lines of attack, the preparation, the deception. Nothing had been as it seemed.
Vicary rushed back to the cottage, telephoned the office, and asked for Boothby. Then he realized it was late and it was a Friday--the days of the week meant nothing to him any longer--but by some miracle Boothby was still there, and he answered his own telephone.
Vicary identified himself. Boothby expressed genuine pleasure at hearing his voice. Vicary assured him he was fine.
"I want to talk to you," Vicary said, "about Kettledrum."
There was silence on the line, but Vicary knew Boothby had not abruptly hung up because he could hear him fidgeting in his chair.
"You can't come here any longer, Alfred. You're persona non grata. So I suppose I'll have to come to you."
"Fine. And don't pretend you don't know how to find me because I see your watchers stalking me."
"Tomorrow, midday," Boothby said and rang off.
Boothby arrived promptly at noon in an official Humber, dressed for the country in tweeds, a shirt open at the neck, and a comfortable cardigan sweater. It had rained overnight. Vicary dug out a pair of extra-large Welling-tons from the cellar for Boothby, and they walked like old chums around a meadow dotted with shorn sheep. Boothby chatted about department gossip and Vicary, with considerable effort, feigned interest.
After a while Vicary stopped walking and gazed into the middle distance. "None of it was real, was it?" he said. "Jordan, Catherine Blake--it was all bad right from the beginning."
Boothby smiled seductively. "Not quite, Alfred. But something like that."
He turned and continued walking, his long body a vertical line against the horizon. Then he paused and gestured for Vicary to join him. Vicary broke into his stiff-jointed mechanized limp, chasing after Boothby, beating his pockets for his half-moon glasses.
"It was the nature of Operation Mulberry that presented us with the problem," Boothby began, without warning. "Tens of thousands of people were involved. Of course, the vast majority had no idea what they were working on. Still, the potential for security leaks was tremendous. The components were so large they had to be built right out in the open. The sites were scattered around the country, but some of it was built right at the London docks. As soon as we were told of the project, we knew we had a problem. We knew the Germans would be able to photograph the sites from the air. We knew one decent spy poking around the construction sites could probably figure out what we were up to. We sent one of our men to Selsey to test out the security. He was having tea in the canteen with some of the workers before anyone bothered to ask him for identification."
Boothby laughed mildly. Vicary watched him as he spoke. All the bombast, all the fidgeting, was gone. Sir Basil was calm and collected and pleasant. Vicary thought under different circumstances he might actually have liked him. He had the sickening realization he had underestimated Boothby's intelligence from the beginning. He was also struck by his use of the words
we
and
us
. Boothby was a member of the club; Vicary had only been allowed to press his nose against the glass for a brief interval.
we
and
us
. Boothby was a member of the club; Vicary had only been allowed to press his nose against the glass for a brief interval.
"The biggest problem was that Mulberry betrayed our intentions," Boothby resumed. "If the Germans discovered we were building artificial harbors, they might very well have concluded that we intended to avoid the heavily fortified ports of Calais by striking at Normandy. Because the project was so large and difficult to conceal, we had to assume that the Germans would eventually find out what we were up to. Our solution was to steal the secret of Mulberry for them and try to control the game." Boothby looked at Vicary. "All right, Alfred, let's hear it. I want to know how much you've really figured out."
"Walker Hardegen," Vicary said. "I'd say it all started with Walker Hardegen."
"Very good, Alfred. But how?"
"Walker Hardegen was a wealthy banker and business-man, ultraconservative, anticommunist, and probably a little anti-Semitic. He was Ivy League, and he knew half the people in Washington. Went to school with them. The Americans aren't so unlike us in that respect. His business regularly took him to Berlin. When men like Hardegen went to Berlin, they attended embassy dinners and parties. They dined with the heads of Germany's biggest companies and with Nazi officials from the party and the ministries. Hardegen spoke perfect German. He probably admired some of the things the Nazis were doing. He believed Hitler and the Nazis were an important buffer between the Bolsheviks and the rest of Europe. I'd say during one of his visits he came to the attention of the Abwehr or the SD."
"Bravo, Alfred. It was the Abwehr, actually, and the man whose attention he captured was Paul Muller, head of Abwehr operations in America."
"Okay, Muller recruited him. Oh, I suppose he probably soft-pedaled it. Said Hardegen wouldn't really be working for the Nazis. He'd be helping in the struggle against international communism. He asked Hardegen for information on American industrial production, the mood in Washington, things like that. Hardegen said yes and became an agent. I have one question. Was Hardegen already an American agent at this point?"
"No," Boothby said, and smiled. "Remember, this is very early in the game, 1937. The Americans weren't terribly sophisticated then. They
did
know, however, that the Abwehr was active in the United States, especially in New York. The year before, the plans for the Nor-den bombsight walked out of the country in the briefcase of an Abwehr spy named Nikolaus Ritter. Roosevelt had ordered Hoover to crack down. In 1939, Hardegen was photographed meeting in New York with a known Abwehr agent. Two months later, they saw him again, meeting with another Abwehr agent in Panama City. Hoover wanted to arrest him and put him on trial. God, but the Americans were such plods at the game. Luckily, MI-Six had set up its office in New York by then. They stepped in and convinced Hoover that Hardegen was more use to us still in the game than sitting in some prison cell."
did
know, however, that the Abwehr was active in the United States, especially in New York. The year before, the plans for the Nor-den bombsight walked out of the country in the briefcase of an Abwehr spy named Nikolaus Ritter. Roosevelt had ordered Hoover to crack down. In 1939, Hardegen was photographed meeting in New York with a known Abwehr agent. Two months later, they saw him again, meeting with another Abwehr agent in Panama City. Hoover wanted to arrest him and put him on trial. God, but the Americans were such plods at the game. Luckily, MI-Six had set up its office in New York by then. They stepped in and convinced Hoover that Hardegen was more use to us still in the game than sitting in some prison cell."
Other books
Crimson Psyche by Lynda Hilburn
More Than Memories by Kristen James
The Heavenly Italian Ice Cream Shop by Abby Clements
King's Pleasure by Byrd, Adrianne
Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion by Wendy Soliman
The Tao of Natural Breathing by Dennis Lewis
Close Enough to Kill by Beverly Barton
Sara's Game by Ernie Lindsey
Death at Hallows End by Bruce, Leo
Redeemed by Becca Jameson
