"That would be lovely," Vicary said, lying.
"Well, marvelous. She's coming to London next week. She'd love to have lunch with you."
Vicary felt his stomach tighten.
"One o'clock at the Connaught, a week from tomorrow," Kenton said. "I'm supposed to speak with her later today. Shall I tell her you'll be there?"
The back of the Rover was cold as a meat locker. Vicary sat on the big leather seat, legs covered in a traveling rug, watching the countryside of Gloucestershire sweep past his window. A red fox crossed the road, then darted back into the hedge. Drowsy fat pheasants pulled at the cropped remains of a snowy cornfield, feather coats puffed out against the cold. Bare tree limbs scratched at the clear sky. A small valley opened before him. Fields stretched like a rumpled patchwork quilt into the distance. The sun was sinking into a sky splashed with watercolor shades of purple and orange.
He was angry with Helen. His spiteful half wanted to believe his job with British Intelligence somehow made him more interesting to her. His rational half told him he and Helen had managed to part as friends and a quiet lunch might be very pleasant. At the very least it would be a welcome diversion from the pressure of the case. He thought, What are you so afraid of? That you might remember you were actually happy for the two years she was part of your life?
He pushed Helen from his mind. Harry's news intrigued him. By instinct he attacked it like a problem of history. His area of expertise was nineteenth-century Europe--he won critical acclaim for his book on the collapse of the balance of power after the Congress of Vienna--but Vicary had a secret passion for the history and myth of ancient Greece. He was intrigued by the fact that much scholarship on the age had to be based on guesswork and conjecture; the immense passage of time and lack of a clear historical record made that necessary. Why, for example, did Pericles launch the Peloponnesian War with Sparta that eventually led to the destruction of Athens? Why not accept the demands of his more powerful rival and revoke the Megarian decree? Was he driven by fear of the superior armies of Sparta? Did he believe war was inevitable? Did he embark on a disastrous foreign adventure to relieve pressure at home?
Now Vicary asked similar questions about his rival in Berlin. Kurt Vogel.
What was Vogel's goal? Vicary believed Vogel's goal was to build a network of elite sleeper agents at the outset of the war and leave them in place until the climactic moment of the confrontation. In order to succeed, great care would have to be given to the way the agent was inserted into the country. Obviously, Vogel had done this; the mere fact that MI5 had no knowledge of the agent until now confirmed it. Vogel would have to assume immigration and passport-control records would be used to find his agents; Vicary would certainly assume that if the roles were reversed. But what if the person who entered the country was dead? There would be no search. It was brilliant. But there was one problem--it required a body. Was it possible they actually murdered someone to trade places with Christa Kunst?
Germany's spies, as a rule, were not killers. Most were money-grubbers, adventurers, and petty Fascists, poorly trained and financed. But if Kurt Vogel had established a network of elite agents, they would be better motivated, more disciplined, and almost certainly more ruthless. Was it possible one of those highly trained and ruthless agents was a woman? Vicary had handled only one case involving a woman--a young German girl who managed to get a job as a maid in the home of a British admiral.
"Stop in the next village," Vicary said to the Wren driving the car. "I need to use the telephone."
The next village was called Aston Magna--a hamlet really, no shops, just a clump of cottages bisected by a pair of narrow lanes. An old man was standing along the roadway with his dog.
Vicary wound down the window and said, "Hello."
"Hello." The man wore Wellington boots and a lumpy tweed coat that looked at least a hundred years old. The dog had three legs.
"Is there a telephone in the village?" Vicary asked.
The man shook his head. Vicary swore the dog was shaking its head too. "No one's bothered to get one yet."
The man's accent was so broad Vicary had trouble understanding him.
"Where's the nearest telephone?"
"That'll be in Moreton."
"And where's that?"
"Follow that road there past the barn. Go left at the manor house and follow the trees into the next village. That's Moreton."
"Thank you."
The dog barked as the car sped away.
Vicary used the telephone at a bakery. He munched a cheese sandwich while he waited for the operator to connect him with the office. He wanted to share a little of his newfound wealth, so he ordered two dozen scones for the typists and the girls in Registry.
Harry came on the line.
Vicary said, "I don't think it was Christa Kunst they dug out of that grave in Whitchurch."
"Then who was it?"
"That's your job, Harry. Get on the phone with Scotland Yard. See if a woman went missing about the same time. Start within a two-hour radius of Whitchurch; then go wider if you have to. When I get back to the office, I'll brief Boothby."
"What are you going to tell him?"
"That we're looking for a dead Dutch woman. He'll love that."
18
EAST LONDON
Finding Peter Jordan would not be a problem. Finding him the right way would.
Vogel's information was good. Berlin knew Jordan worked at Grosvenor Square at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, better known as SHAEF. The square was heavily patrolled by military policemen, impenetrable to an outsider. Berlin had the address of Jordan's house in Kensington and had put together an extraordinary amount of information on Jordan's background. What was missing was a minute-by-minute account of his daily routine in London. Without it Catherine could only guess at how best to make her approach.
Following Jordan herself was out of the question for a number of reasons. The first dealt with her personal security. It would be very dangerous for her to trail an American officer through the West End of London. She could be spotted by military policemen or by Jordan himself. If the officers were feeling especially diligent they could bring her in for questioning. A little checking might reveal that the real Catherine Blake died thirty years ago at the age of eight months and that she was a German agent.
The second reason for not following Peter Jordan herself was purely practical. It was virtually impossible for her to do the job correctly alone. Even if Neumann helped it would be difficult. The first time Jordan stepped into a military staff car she would be completely helpless. She couldn't walk up to a taxi and say "Follow that American staff car." Cabbies were aware of the threat posed to Allied officers by spies. She might be driven straight to the nearest police station instead. She needed nondescript vehicles to tail him, nondescript men to walk with him, nondescript men to maintain a static post outside his home.
She needed help.
She needed Vernon Pope.
Vernon Pope was one of London's biggest and most successful underworld figures. Pope, along with his brother Robert, ran protection rackets, illegal gambling parlors, prostitution rings, and a thriving black market operation. Early in the war Vernon Pope had brought Robert to the emergency room at St. Thomas Hospital with a serious head wound suffered in the blitz. Catherine examined him quickly, saw that he was concussed, and suspected his skull might have been fractured. She made certain Robert was seen by a doctor straightaway. A grateful Vernon Pope had left a note for her. It said, If there's ever anything I can do to repay you please don't hesitate to ask.
Catherine kept the note. It was in her handbag.
Somehow, Vernon Pope's warehouse had survived the bombing. It stood intact, an arrogant island surrounded by seas of destruction. Catherine had not ventured to the East End in nearly four years. The devastation was shocking. It was difficult to make certain she was not being followed. There were few doorways left for shelter, no boxes for false teleph
one calls, no shops for a small purchase, just endless mountains of debris.
She watched the warehouse from across the street, a light cold rain falling. She wore trousers, sweater, and a leather coat. The doors of the warehouse were pulled back, and three heavy lorries rumbled out into the street. A pair of well-dressed men pulled them shut quickly, but not before Catherine caught a glimpse inside. It was a beehive of activity.
A knot of dockworkers walked past her, coming off the day shift. She dropped in a few paces behind them and walked toward the Pope warehouse.
There was a small gate with an electric buzzer for deliveries. She pressed it, received no answer, and pressed it again. Catherine felt she was being watched. Finally the gate drew back.
"What can we do for you, luv?" The pleasant Cockney voice did not match the figure before her. He stood well over six feet tall, with black hair cropped close to his skull and small spectacles. He wore an expensive gray suit with a white shirt and silver tie. The muscles of his upper arms filled out the sleeves of the jacket.
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Pope, please." Catherine handed the hulk the note. He read quickly, as though he had seen many of them before.
"I'll ask the boss if he has a minute to see you. Come inside."
Catherine stepped through the gate, and he closed it behind her.
"Hands above your head, darling, that's a good girl. Nothing personal. Mr. Pope requires it of everyone." Pope's man patted her down. It was brisk and not very professional. She cringed as he ran his hands over her breasts. She resisted an impulse to crush his nose with her elbow. He opened her handbag, glanced inside, and handed it back. She had expected this so she had come unarmed. She felt naked without a weapon, vulnerable. Next time she would bring a stiletto.
He led her through the warehouse. Men dressed in overalls were loading crates of goods into half a dozen vans. At the far end of the warehouse boxes stood floor to ceiling on wooden pallets: coffee, cigarettes, sugar, as well as barrels of petrol. There was a fleet of shining motorbikes parked in a neat row. Vernon Pope was obviously doing a brisk business.
"This way, luv," he said. "Name's Dicky, by the way." He led her into a freight lift, pulled shut the doors, and pressed the button. Catherine reached into her purse for a cigarette and stuck it between her lips.
"Sorry, darling," said Dicky, waving a finger in disapproval. "The boss hates fags. Says one day we're going to find out they're killing us. Besides, there's enough petrol and ammunition in this place to blow us clear to Glasgow."
"That's some favor," Vernon Pope said. He rose from his comfortable leather sofa and roamed his office. It was not just an office but more like a small flat, with a seating area and a kitchen filled with modern appliances. There was a bedroom behind a pair of black teak doors. They parted briefly and Catherine spotted a drowsy blonde waiting impatiently for the meeting to conclude. Pope poured himself another whisky. He was tall and handsome, with pale skin, fair brilliantined hair, wintry gray eyes. His suit was carefully tailored and circumspect; it might have been worn by a successful executive or someone born to wealth.
"Can you imagine that, Robert? Catherine here actually wants us to spend three days chasing an American naval officer around the West End."
Robert Pope remained at the fringes, pacing like a skittish gray wolf.
"That's not really our line of work, Catherine darling," Vernon Pope said. "Besides, what if the Yank or British security boys catch on to our little game? The London police I deal with. MI-Five is another story."
Catherine withdrew a cigarette. "Do you mind?"
"If you must. Dicky, give her an ashtray."
Catherine lit the cigarette and smoked quietly for a moment. "I've seen the equipment you have downstairs in your warehouse. You could easily mount the kind of surveillance operation I'm talking about."
"And why in the world would a volunteer nurse from St. Thomas Hospital want to mount a surveillance operation on an Allied officer, Robert, I ask you?"
Robert Pope knew he was not expected to provide an answer. Vernon Pope moved to the window, drink cupped in his hand. The blackout curtains were raised, giving him a view of the boats working up and down the river. "Look at what the Germans have done to this place," he said finally. "Used to be the center of the world, the biggest port on the face of the earth. And now look at it: a bloody waste-land. Things will never be the same around here. You're not working for the Germans, are you, Catherine?"
"Of course not," she said calmly. "My reasons for following him are strictly personal."
"Good. I'm a thief but I'm still a patriot." He paused, then asked, "So why do you want him followed?"
"I'm offering you a job, Mr. Pope. Frankly, the reasons why are none of your business."
Pope turned around and faced her. "Very good, Catherine. You've got guts. I like that. Besides, you'd be a fool to tell me."
The bedroom doors parted and the blonde emerged, wearing a man's paisley silk robe. It was tied loosely at the waist, revealing a good pair of legs and small upturned breasts.
"Vivie, we're not finished yet," Pope said.
"I was thirsty." She glanced at Catherine while pouring herself a gin and tonic. "How much longer are you going to be, Vernon?"
"Not long. Business, darling. Back in the bedroom."
Vivie moved back to the bedroom, hips flowing beneath the gown. She threw another glance at Catherine over her shoulder before softly closing the door.
"Pretty girl," Catherine said. "You're a lucky man."
Vernon Pope laughed quietly and shook his head. "Sometimes I wish I could bestow some of my luck on another man."
There was a long silence while Pope paced the room. "I'm into a lot of shady things, Catherine, but I don't like this. I don't like it one little bit."
Catherine lit another cigarette. Maybe she had made a mistake by approaching Vernon Pope with the offer.
"But I'm going to do it. You helped my brother, and I made you a promise. I'm a man of my word." He paused, looking her up and down. "Besides, there's something about you I like. Very much."
"I'm glad we can do business together, Mr. Pope."
"It's going to cost you, luv. I've got a lot of overhead. I've got wages to pay. This kind of thing is going to take a good deal of my resources."
"That's why I came to you." Catherine reached inside her purse and withdrew an envelope. "How does two hundred pounds sound? One hundred now, one hundred on delivery of the information. I want Commander Jordan followed for seventy-two hours, twenty-four hours a day. I want a minute-by-minute accounting of his movements. I want to know where he eats, who he meets with, and what they talk about. I want to know if he's seeing any women. Can you manage that, Mr. Pope?"
"Of course."
"Good. Then I'll contact you on Saturday."
"How can I reach you?"
"Actually, you can't."
Catherine laid the envelope on the table and got to her feet.
Vernon Pope smiled pleasantly. "I thought you would say that. Dicky, show Catherine the way out. Put together a bag of groceries for her. Some coffee, some sugar, maybe a little tinned beef if that shipment came in. Something nice, Dicky."
"I have a bad feeling about this one, Vernon," Robert Pope said. "Maybe we should drop the whole thing."
Vernon Pope hated to be questioned by his younger brother. As far as Vernon was concerned, he made the business decisions and Robert handled the muscle.
"It's nothing we can't handle. Did you have her followed?"
"Dicky and the boys picked her up as she left the warehouse."
"Good. I want to know who that woman is and what she's playing at."
"Maybe we could turn this to our advantage. We could buy ourselves some goodwill with the police if we quietly tell them what she's up to."
"We'll do nothing of the kind. Is that clear?"
"Maybe you should think a little more about business and a little less about getting it wet."
Verno
n turned on him and grabbed him by the throat. "What I do is none of your goddamned business. Besides, it's a helluva lot better than what you and Dicky do."
Robert visibly reddened.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Robert? You think I don't know what goes on?"
Vernon released his grip.
"Now get out on the street where you belong and make sure Dicky doesn't lose her."
Catherine spotted the tail two minutes after leaving the warehouse. She had expected it. Men like Vernon Pope don't stay in business long unless they are cautious and suspicious. But the tail was clumsy and amateurish. After all, Dicky had been the one who had greeted her, searched her, and taken her inside. She knew his face. Stupid of them to put him on the street to follow her. Losing him would be easy.
She ducked into an underground station, melting into the evening crowds. She crossed through the tunnel and emerged on the other side of the street. A bus was waiting. She boarded it and found a seat next to an elderly woman. Through the fogged window she watched Dicky charge up the stairs into the street, panic on his face.
She felt a little sorry for him. Poor Dicky was no match for a professional, and Vernon Pope would be furious. She would take no chances: a taxi ride, two or three more buses, a stroll through the West End before returning to her flat.
For now she settled into her seat and enjoyed the ride.
The bedroom was dark when Vernon Pope entered and quietly closed the doors. Vivie rose to her knees at the end of the bed. Vernon kissed her deeply. He was being rougher than usual. Vivie thought she knew why. She slid her hand down the front of his trousers. "Oh, my God, Vernon. Is this for me or that bitch?"
Vernon parted the silk robe and pushed it down over her shoulders. "A little of both, I'm afraid," he said, kissing her again.
"You wanted her right there in the office. I could see it on your face."
"You always were a perceptive little girl."
She kissed him again. "When is she coming back?"