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."
"Certainly."
She watched his next movements very carefully. He removed his keys from his trouser pocket and unlocked a door. That would be his study. He switched on the light and was inside for less than a minute. When he emerged Jordan was no longer carrying his briefcase. He probably locked it inside his safe. He climbed the stairs. His bedroom was on the second floor. It was perfect. While he was sleeping upstairs she could break into his safe and photograph the contents of his briefcase. Neumann would make sure the photographs reached Berlin, and the Abwehr analysts would examine them to discover the nature of Peter Jordan's work.
She went through the doorway into the kitchen and was struck by a flash of panic. Why was he suddenly changing out of his uniform? Had she done something wrong? Made some mistake? Was he on the phone right now to MI5? Was MI5 calling Special Branch? Would he come downstairs and sweet-talk her until they broke down the door and arrested her?
Catherine forced herself to relax. It was ludicrous.
When she opened the door to the refrigerator she realized something. She didn't have the vaguest idea how to make an omelet. Maria made excellent omelets--she would just imitate everything she did. From the refrigerator she took three eggs, a small pat of butter, and a chunk of cheddar. She opened the door to the small pantry and found a tin of tomatoes and a bottle of wine. She opened it, found the wineglasses, and poured for them both. She didn't wait until Jordan returned to try the wine; it was delicious. She could taste wildflowers and lavender and apricot, and it made her think of her imaginary villa. Warm the tomatoes first--that's what Maria did, except before, in Paris, the tomatoes were fresh tomatoes, not these beastly tinned ones.
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She opened the tomatoes, drained off the water, chopped them, and dropped them into a hot pan. The kitchen immediately took on the smell of the tomatoes, and she drank some more wine before cracking and beating the eggs and grating the cheese into a bowl. She had to smile--the domestic routine of making dinner for a man felt so odd to her. Then she thought, Perhaps Kurt Vogel should add a cooking course to his little Abwehr spy school.
Jordan set the table in the dining room while Catherine finished with the omelet. He had changed into cotton khaki trousers and a sweater, and Catherine was again struck by his looks. She wanted to let down her hair--to do something to make herself more attractive to him--but she stayed within the character she had created for herself. The omelet was surprisingly good and they both ate it very quickly before it could go cold, washing it down with the wine, a prewar Bordeaux Jordan had brought to London from New York. By the end of the meal Catherine felt pleasant and relaxed. Jordan seemed that way too. He appeared to suspect nothing--appeared to accept that their meeting was wholly coincidental.
"Have you ever been to the States?" he asked, as they cleared away the dishes and carried them into the kitchen.
"Actually, I lived in Washington for two years when I was a little girl."
"Really?"
"Yes, my father worked at the Foreign Office. He was a diplomat. He was posted in Washington in the early twenties, after the Great War. I liked it very much. Except for the heat, of course. My goodness, but Washington is oppressive in the summer! My father rented a cottage for us on the Chesapeake Bay for the summers. I have very fond memories of that time."
All true, except Catherine's father had worked for the German Foreign Ministry, not the British Foreign Office. Catherine had decided it was best to draw on as many aspects of her own life as possible.
"Is your father still a diplomat?"
"No, he died before the war."
"And your mother?"
"My mother died when I was a very little girl." Catherine stacked the dirty dishes in the sink. "I'll wash if you dry."
"Forget it. I have a woman who comes a couple of times a week. She'll be here in the morning. How about a glass of brandy?"
"That would be nice."
There were photographs in silver frames over the fireplace, and she looked at them while Jordan poured the brandy. He joined her in front of the fire and handed her one of the glasses.
"Your wife was very beautiful."
"Yes, she was. Her death was very hard on me."
"And your son? Who's caring for him now?"
"Margaret's sister, Jane."
She sipped her brandy and smiled at him. "You don't sound terribly thrilled about that."
"My God, is it that obvious?"
"Yes, it is."
"Jane and I never really got along very well. And frankly, I wish Billy wasn't in her care. She's selfish and petty and spoiled rotten, and I'm afraid she's going to make Billy the same way. But I really had no choice. The day after I joined the navy, I was sent to Washington, and two weeks after that I was flown to London."
"Billy is the image of his father," Catherine said. "I'm certain you have nothing to worry about."
Jordan smiled and said, "I hope you're right. Please, sit down."
"Are you sure? I don't want to keep you--"
"I haven't had an evening as pleasant as this in a very long time. Please stay a little longer."
They sat down next to each other on the large leather couch.
Jordan said, "So tell me how it is that an incredibly beautiful woman like you isn't married."
Catherine felt her face flush.
"My goodness, you're actually blushing. Don't tell me no one has ever told you before that you're beautiful."
She smiled and said, "No, it's just been a very long time."
"Well, that makes two of us. It's been a very long time since I've told a woman that she was beautiful. In fact, I can remember the last time. It was when I woke up and saw Margaret's face on the day she died. I never thought I could find another woman beautiful after that. Until I made a fool of myself by crashing into you in the blackout last night. You took my breath away, Catherine."
"Thank you. I can assure you the attraction was mutual."
"Is that why you didn't give me your telephone number?"
"I didn't want you to believe I was a wanton woman."
"Darn, I was hoping you were a wanton woman."
"Peter," she said, and jabbed him in the leg with her finger.
"Are you ever going to answer my question? Why aren't you married?"
Catherine stared into the fire for a moment. "I was married. My husband, Michael, was shot down over the Channel the first week of the Battle of Britain. They never were able to recover his body. I was pregnant at the time, and I lost the baby. The doctors said it was the shock of Michael's death that did it." Catherine's gaze shifted from the fire to Jordan's face. "He was handsome and brave and he was my entire world. For the longest time after his death, I never looked twice at another man. I started dating a short time ago, but nothing at all serious. And then some foolish American who wasn't using his blackout torch smashed into me on a pavement in Kensington. . . ."
There was a long and slightly uncomfortable moment of silence. The fire was dying. Catherine could hear the sound of a rainstorm getting up and pattering against the pavement outside the window. She realized she could stay like this for quite a while, sitting next to the fire with her brandy and this kind and gentle man. My God, Catherine, what's got into you? She tried for a moment to make herself hate him but she could not. She hoped he never did anything to threaten her, anything that would force her to kill him.
She made a show of looking at her wristwatch. "My goodness, look at the time," she said. "It's eleven o'clock. I've imposed on you too long. I should really be going--"
"What were you thinking just now?" Jordan asked, as if he had not heard a word she had just said.
What was she thinking? A very good question.
"I realize you can't talk about your work, but I'm going to ask you one question and I want you to tell me the truth."
"Cross my heart."
"You're not going to run off and get yourself killed, are you?"
"No, I'm not going to get myself killed. I promise."
She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. His lips did not respond.
She pulled away, thinking, Did I make a mistake? Perhaps he wasn't ready for this.
He said, "I'm sorry. It's just been a very long time."
"It's been a very long time for me too."
"Maybe we need to try again."
She smiled and kissed him again. This time his mouth responded to hers. He pulled her close to him. She enjoyed the sensation of her breasts pressing against him.
After a moment she drew away.
"If I don't leave now I don't think I ever will."
"I'm not sure I want you to leave."
She gave him a final kiss and said, "When am I going to see you again?"
"Will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night--a proper dinner, that is? Somewhere we can dance."
"I'd love that."
"How about the Savoy again, around eight o'clock."
"That sounds perfect."
Catherine Blake was brought back to reality by the cold blast of rain and the sight of Pope and Dicky sitting in a parked van. At least they had not interfered. Perhaps they were content to watch from a distance for the time being.
The late-night traffic was light. She quickly flagged down a taxi on Brompton Road. She climbed in and asked the cabbie to take her to Victoria Station. Turning around, she saw Pope and Dicky following.
At Victoria she paid off the driver and went inside, melting into a crowd of passengers stepping from a late-arriving train. She glanced over her shoulder as Dicky Dobbs came running into the terminus, head wheeling from side to side.
Quickly, she walked out through another door, vanishing into
the blackout.
27
BAVARIA, GERMANY: MARCH 1938
Her cottage in Vogel's secret village is flimsy and drafty, the coldest place she has ever known. There is a fireplace, though, and in the afternoon while she studies codes and radio procedures an Abwehr man comes and lays kindling and dry fir logs for the night.
The fire has burned low, the cold is creeping into the cottage, so she rises and tosses a pair of large logs onto the embers. Vogel is lying on the floor silently behind her. He is a terrible lover: boring, selfish, all elbows and knees. Even when he tries to please her he is clumsy and rough and preoccupied. It is a wonder she has been able to seduce him at all. She has her reasons. If he falls in love with her or becomes obsessed with her, Vogel will be reluctant to send her to England. It seems to be working. When he was inside her a moment ago he professed love for her. Now, as he lies on the rug, staring at the ceiling, he seems to be regretting his words.
"Sometimes I don't want you to go," he says.
"Go where?"
"To England."
She comes back, lies down next to him on the rug, and kisses him. His breath is horrible: cigarettes, coffee, bad teeth.
"Poor Vogel. I've made a shambles of your heart, haven't I?"
"Yes, I think so. Sometimes I think about taking you back to Berlin with me. I can get you a flat there."
"That would be lovely," she says, but she is thinking it might be better to be arrested by MI5 than spend the war as Kurt Vogel's mistress in some hovel of a flat in Berlin.
"But you are far too valuable to Germany to spend the war in Berlin. You must go behind enemy lines to England." He pauses and lights a cigarette. "And then there's something else I think. I think, Why would a beautiful woman fall in love with a man such as myself? And then I have my answer. She thinks he won't send her to England if he loves her."