"I promise."
She stepped forward and kissed him on the mouth very briefly before turning and running across the sand. Neumann shook his head; then he turned in the opposite direction and ran back down the beach.
29
LONDON
Alfred Vicary felt he was sinking in quicksand. The more he struggled, the deeper he descended. Each time he unearthed a new clue or lead he seemed to fall further behind. He was beginning to doubt his chances of ever catching the spies.
The source of his despair was a pair of decoded German messages that had arrived from Bletchley Park that morning. The first message was from a German agent in Britain asking Berlin to begin making regular pickups. The second was from Hamburg to a German agent in Britain asking the agent to do just that. It was a disaster. The German operation--whatever it might be--appeared to be succeeding. If the agent had requested a courier, it was logical the agent had stolen something. Vicary was struck by the fear that if he ever did catch up with the spies he might be too late.
The red light shone over Boothby's door. Vicary pressed the buzzer and waited. A minute passed and the light still was red. So like Boothby to demand an urgent meeting, then keep his victim waiting.
Why haven't you told us this before?
But I have, Alfred, old man. . . . I told Boothby.
Vicary pressed the buzzer again. Was it really possible Boothby had known of the existence of the Vogel network and kept it from him? It made absolutely no sense. Vicary could think of only one possible explanation. Boothby had vehemently opposed Vicary's being assigned to the case and had made that clear from the outset. But would Boothby's opposition include actively trying to sabotage Vicary's efforts? Quite possible. If Vicary could display no momentum in solving the case, Boothby might have grounds to sack him and give the case to someone else, someone he trusted--a career officer, perhaps, not one of the new recruits that Boothby so detested.
The light finally shone green. Vicary, slipping through the grand double doors, vowed not to leave again without first clearing the air.
Boothby was seated behind his desk. "Let's have it, Alfred."
Vicary briefed Boothby on the content of the two messages and his theory about what they meant. Boothby listened, fidgeting and squirming in his chair.
"For God's sake!" he snapped. "The news gets worse every day with this case."
Vicary thought, Another sparkling contribution, Sir Basil.
"We've made some progress on piecing together background on the female agent. Karl Becker identified her as Anna von Steiner. She was born in Guy's Hospital in London on Christmas Day 1910. Her father was Peter von Steiner, a diplomat and a wealthy West Prussian aristocrat. Her mother was an Englishwoman named Daphne Harrison. The family remained in London until war broke out, then moved to Germany. Because of Steiner's position, Daphne Harrison was not interned during the war, as many British citizens were. She died of tuberculosis in 1918 at the Steiner estate in West Prussia. After the war Steiner and his daughter drifted from posting to posting, including another brief stint in London in the early twenties. Steiner also worked in Rome and in Washington."
"Sounds like he was a spy to me," Boothby said. "But go on, Alfred."
"In 1937, Anna Steiner vanished. We can only speculate after that. She undergoes Abwehr training, is sent to the Netherlands to establish a false identity as Christa Kunst, then enters England. By the way, Anna Steiner was allegedly killed in an auto accident outside Berlin in March 1938. Obviously, Vogel fabricated that."
Boothby rose and paced his office. "It's all very interesting, Alfred, but there's one fatal flaw. It's based on information given to you by Karl Becker. Becker would say anything to ingratiate himself."
"Becker has no reason to lie to us about this, Sir Basil. And his story is perfectly consistent with the few things we know for certain."
"All I'm saying, Alfred, is that I very much doubt the veracity of anything the man says."
"So why did you spend so much time with him last October?" Vicary said.
Sir Basil was standing in the window, looking down at the last light slipping out of the square. His head snapped around before he regained his composure and turned slowly to face Vicary.
"The reason I spoke to Becker is none of your affair."
"Becker is my agent," Vicary said, anger creeping into his voice. "I arrested him, I turned him, I run him. He gave you information that might have proved useful to this case, yet you kept that information from me. I'd like to know why."
Boothby was very calm now. "Becker told me the same story he told you: special agents, a secret camp in Bavaria, special codes and rendezvous procedures. And to be honest with you, Alfred, I didn't believe him at the time. We had no other evidence to support his story. Now we do."
It was a perfectly logical explanation--on the surface, at least.
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
"It was a long time ago."
"Who's Broome?"
"Sorry, Alfred."
"I want to know who Broome is."
"And I'm trying to tell you as politely as I can that you're not entitled to know who Broome is." Boothby shook his head. "My God! This isn't some college club where we sit around and swap insights. This department is in the business of counterintelligence. And it operates on a very simple concept: need to know. You have no need to know who Broome is because it does not affect any case to which you have been assigned. Therefore it is none of your business."
"Is the concept of need to know a license to deceive other officers?"
"I wouldn't use the word deceive," Boothby said, as though it were an obscenity. "It simply means that, for reasons of security, an officer is entitled to know only what is necessary for him to carry out his assignment."
"How about the word lie? Would you use that word?"
The discussion seemed to be causing Boothby physical pain.
"I suppose at times it might be necessary to be less than truthful with one officer to safeguard an operation being carried out by another. Surely this doesn't come as a surprise to you."
"Of course not, Sir Basil." Vicary hesitated, deciding whether to continue with his line of questioning or disengage. "I was just wondering why you lied to me about reading Kurt Vogel's file."
The blood seemed to drain from Boothby's face, and Vicary could see him bunching and unbunching his big fist inside his trouser pocket. It was a risky strategy, and Grace Clarendon's neck was on the block. When Vicary was gone, Boothby would call Nicholas Jago in Registry and demand answers. Jago would surely realize Grace Clarendon was the source of the leak. It was no small matter; she could be sacked immediately. But Vicary was betting they wouldn't touch Grace because it would only prove her information had been correct. He hoped to God he was right.
"Looking for a scapegoat, Alfred? Someone or something to blame for your inability to solve this case? You should know the danger in that more than any of us. History is replete with examples of weak men who have found it expedient to acquire a convenient scapegoat."
Vicary thought, And you're not answering my question.
He rose to his feet. "Good night, Sir Basil."
Boothby remained silent as Vicary walked toward the door.
"There's one more thing," Boothby finally said. "I shouldn't think I need to tell you this, but I shall in any case. We don't have an unlimited amount of time. If there isn't progress soon we may have to make--well, changes. You understand, don't you, Alfred?"
30
LONDON
As they walked into the Savoy Grill, the band began playing "And a Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." It was a rather poor rendition--choppy and a bit rushed--but it was pretty, regardless. Jordan took her hand without speaking and they walked onto the dance floor. He was an excellent dancer, smooth and confident, and he held her very closely. He had come directly from his office and was wearing his uniform. He had brought his briefcase with him. Obviously it contained nothing important
because he had left it behind at the table. Still, he never seemed to take his eyes off it for very long.
After a moment Catherine noticed something: everyone in the room seemed to be staring at them. It was terribly unnerving. For six years she had done everything in her power not to be noticed. Now she was dancing with a dazzling American naval officer at the most glamorous hotel in London. She felt exposed and vulnerable, yet at the same time she derived a strange satisfaction from doing something completely normal for a change.
Her own appearance certainly had something to do with the attention they were drawing. She had seen it in Jordan's eyes a few minutes earlier when she walked into the bar. She looked stunning tonight. She wore a dress of black crepe material with a deep plunge in the back and a neckline that showed off the shape of her breasts. She wore her hair down, held back by a smart jeweled clasp, and a double strand of pearls at her throat. She had taken care with her makeup. The wartime cosmetics were of extremely poor quality but she didn't require much--a little lipstick to accentuate the shape of her generous mouth, a little rouge to bring out her prominent cheekbones, a bit of liner around her eyes. She derived no special satisfaction from her appearance. She had always thought of her own beauty in dispassionate terms, the way a woman might evaluate her favorite china or a cherished antique rug. Still, it had been a very long time since she had walked through a room and watched heads turn her way. She was the kind of woman that both sexes noticed. The men could hardly keep their mouths closed, the women frowned with envy.
Jordan said, "Have you noticed that everyone in this room is staring at us?"
"I've noticed that, yes. Do you mind?"
"Of course not." He drew away a few inches so he could look at her face. "It's been a very long time since I've felt this way, Catherine. And to think I had to come all the way to London to find you."
"I'm glad you did."
"Can I make a confession?"
"Of course you can."
"I didn't get much sleep after you left last night."
She smiled and drew him near, so her mouth was next to his ear. "I'll make a confession too. I didn't sleep at all."
"What were you thinking about?"
"You tell me first."
"I was thinking how much I wished you hadn't left."
"I was having very similar thoughts."
"I was thinking about kissing you."
"I think I was kissing you."
"I don't want you to leave tonight."
"I think you would have to throw me out bodily if you wanted me to leave."
"I don't think you need to worry about that."
"I think I'd like you to kiss me again right now, Peter."
"What about all these people staring at us? What do you think they'll do if I kiss you?"
"I'm not sure. But it's 1944 in London. Anything can happen."
"Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," the waiter said, opening a bottle of champagne as they came back to the table.
"Does the gentleman have a name?" Jordan asked.
"None that he gave, sir."
"What did he look like?"
"Rather like a sunburned rugby player, sir."
"American naval officer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Shepherd Ramsey."
"The gentleman wishes to join you for a glass."
"Tell the gentleman thank you for the champagne, but forget it."
"Of course, sir."
"Who's Shepherd Ramsey?" Catherine asked when the waiter left.
"Shepherd Ramsey is my oldest and dearest friend in the world. I love him like a brother."
"So why don't you let him come over for a drink?"
"Because for once in my adult life I'd like to do something without him. Besides, I don't want to share you."
"Good, because I don't want to share you either." Catherine raised her champagne glass. "To the absence of Shepherd."
Jordan laughed. "To the absence of Shepherd."
They touched glasses.
Catherine added, "And to the blackout, without which I would never have bumped into you."
"To the blackout." Jordan hesitated. "I know this probably sounds like a terrible cliche, but I can't take my eyes off of you."
Catherine smiled and leaned across the table.
"I don't want you to take your eyes off me, Peter. Why do you think I wore this dress?"
"I'm a little nervous."
"I am too, Peter."
"You look so beautiful, lying there in the moonlight."
"You look beautiful too."
"Don't. My wife--"
"I'm sorry. It's just that I've never seen a man who looked quite like you. Try not to think about your wife for just a few minutes."
"It's very hard, but you're making it a little easier."
"You look like a statue, kneeling there like that."
"A very old, crumbling statue."
"A beautiful statue."
"I can't stop touching you--touching them. They're so beautiful. I've been dreaming of touching them like this since the first moment I saw you."
"You can touch them harder. It won't hurt."
"Like this?"
"Oh, God! Yes, Peter, just like that. But I want to touch you too."
"That feels so nice when you do that."
"It does?"
"Ahh, yes, it does."
"It's so hard. It feels wonderful. There's something else I want to do to it."
"What?"
"I can't say it out loud. Just come closer."
"Catherine--"
"Just do it, darling. I promise you won't regret it."
"Oh, my God, that feels so incredible."
"Then I shouldn't stop?"
"You look so beautiful doing that."
"I want to make you feel good."
"I want to make you feel good."
"I can show you how."
"I think I know how."
"Ahh, Peter, your tongue feels so wonderful. Oh, please, touch my breasts while you do that."
"I want to be inside you."
"Hurry, Peter."
"Ohh, you're so soft, so wonderful. Oh, God, Catherine, I'm going to--"
"Wait! Not yet, darling. Do me a favor and lie down on your back. Let me do the rest."
He did as she asked. She took him in her hand and guided him inside her body. She could have just lain there and let him finish but she wanted it this way. She always knew Vogel would do this to her. Why else would he want a female agent except to seduce Allied officers and steal their secrets? She always thought the man would be fat and hairy and old and ugly, not like Peter. If she was going to be Kurt Vogel's whore, she might as well enjoy it. Oh, God, Catherine, you shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be losing control like this. But she couldn't help it. She was enjoying it. And she was losing control. Her head rolled back and her hands went to her breasts and she stroked her nipples with her fingers and after a moment she felt his warm release within her and it washed over her in wave after wonderful wave.
It was late, at least four o'clock, though Catherine couldn't be sure because it was too dark to see the clock on the bedstand. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Peter Jordan was sleeping soundly next to her. His breathing was deep and regular. They had eaten a large meal, had a lot to drink, and made love twice. Unless he was a very light sleeper, he would probably sleep through a Luftwaffe night raid right now. She slipped out of bed, put on the silk dressing robe he had given her, and padded quietly across the room. The bedroom door was closed halfway. Catherine opened it a few inches, slipped through the doorway, and closed it behind her.
The silence rang in her ears. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She forced herself to be calm. She had worked too hard--risked too much--just to get to this point. One silly mistake and it would destroy all she had done. She moved quickly down the narrow staircase. The stair creaked. She froze, waiting to hear if Jordan woke up. Outside a car whooshed through
standing water. Somewhere a dog was barking. In the distance a lorry horn blared. She realized these were just the average sounds of the night that people slept through all the time. She walked quickly down the stairs and along the hall. She found his keys on a small table, next to her handbag. She picked them both up and went to work.
Catherine had limited objectives tonight. She wanted to guarantee herself regular access to Jordan's study and his private papers. For that she needed her own copy of the keys to the front door, to the study door, and to his briefcase. Jordan's key ring held several keys. The key to the front door was obvious; it was larger than the rest. She reached in her purse and removed a block of soft brown clay. She singled out the skeleton key and pressed it into the clay, making a neat imprint. The key to the briefcase was also obvious; it was the smallest. She repeated the same process, making another neat imprint. The study would be more difficult; there were a number of keys that looked as though they might be the one. There was only one way to find out which it was. She picked up her handbag and Jordan's briefcase, carried everything down the hall to the study door, and began trying the different keys. The fourth key she tried fit the lock. She removed it and pressed it into her block of clay.
Catherine could stop now, and it would be a very successful evening. She could make duplicate keys and she could come back when Jordan wasn't home and photograph everything in his study. She would do that; but she wanted more tonight. She wanted to prove to Vogel that she had done it, that she was a talented agent. By her estimate she had been out of bed less than two minutes. She could afford two more.
She unlocked the study door, went inside, and switched on the light. It was a handsome room, furnished like the drawing room in a masculine way. There was a large desk and a leather chair and a drafting table with a tall wooden stool in front of it. Catherine reached inside her handbag and withdrew two items, her camera and her silenced Mauser pistol. She laid the Mauser on the desk. She raised the camera to her eye and clicked off two photographs of the room. Next she unlocked Jordan's briefcase. It was virtually empty--just a billfold, a case for eyeglasses, and a small leather-bound appointment book. She thought, It's a start at least. Perhaps there were names of important men with whom Jordan had met. If the Abwehr knew whom he was meeting, perhaps they could discover the nature of his work.