The Unlikely Spy

  "No, I never wondered that because I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

  "Do you ever wonder why you were never able to find out where she lives?"

  "I never tried because I never met the woman!"

  Harry noticed a sheen of perspiration on Pope's face. He thought, I'm finally getting to him.

  Vicary must have noticed it too, because he chose that moment to speak for the first time. "You're not being honest with us, Mr. Pope," he said politely, still studying his hands. Then he looked up and said, "But then, we haven't been exactly honest with you, have we, Harry?"

  Harry thought, Perfect timing, Alfred. Well done. He said, "No, Alfred, we haven't been completely honest with Mr. Pope here."

  Pope looked thoroughly confused. "What the fuck are you two talking about?"

  "We're connected with the War Office. We deal in security."

  A shadow passed over Pope's face. "What does my brother's murder have to do with the war?" His voice had lost conviction.

  "I'm going to be honest with you. We know this woman is a German spy. And we know she came to you for help. And if you don't start talking we're going to be forced to take some rather drastic action."

  Pope turned to Harry, as if Harry had been appointed his lawyer. "I can't tell him what he wants to know because I don't know anything. I've never seen that woman in my life."

  Vicary seemed disappointed. "Well, then, you're under arrest, Mr. Pope."

  "On what bloody charges?"

  "Espionage."

  "Espionage! You can't do that! You have no evidence!"

  "I have enough evidence and enough power to lock you away and throw away the fucking key." Vicary's voice had taken on a menacing edge. "Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a filthy, stinking jail, I suggest you start talking now!"

  Pope blinked rapidly, looking first at Vicary, then at Harry. He was defeated.

  "I begged Vernon not to take the job but he wouldn't listen," Pope said. "He just wanted to get under her skirt. I always knew there was something wrong with her."

  Vicary said, "What did she want from you?"

  "She wanted us to follow an American officer. She wanted a complete report on his movements around London. Paid us two hundred quid for it. She's been seeing a lot of him ever since."

  "Where?"

  "In restaurants. At his house."

  "How do you know?"

  "We've been following them."

  "What does she call herself ?"

  "Catherine. No last name."

  "And what was the officer's name?"

  "Commander Peter Jordan, U.S. Navy."

  Vicary immediately detained Robert Pope and Dicky Dobbs. He saw no reason to keep his word to a professional thief and liar. Besides, he couldn't have them running around loose on the street. Vicary made arrangements to have them stored on ice at an MI5 lockup outside London.

  Harry Dalton telephoned the Americans at Grosvenor Square and asked whether there was a naval officer named Peter Jordan assigned to SHAEF headquarters. Fifteen minutes later someone else called back and said, "Yeah, who wants to know?" When Harry asked about Jordan's assignment, the American said, "Above your pay grade, fella--yours and mine."

  Harry told Vicary about the conversation. Vicary felt the blood drain from his face.

  For ninety minutes no one could find Basil Boothby. It was still early, and he had not arrived at his office. Vicary rang his home at Cadogan Square, and a testy butler said Sir Basil was no longer there. His secretary professed a guarded ignorance about Sir Basil's whereabouts; she expected him quite soon. Boothby, according to the gossip mill, believed he was stalked by his enemies and was notoriously vague about his personal movements. Finally, shortly after nine o'clock, he arrived at his office looking inordinately pleased with himself. Vicary--who hadn't bathed, slept, or changed his clothes in nearly two days--followed him inside and broke the news.

  Boothby walked to his desk and picked up the receiver of his secure telephone. He dialed a number and waited. "Hello, General Betts? This is Boothby calling from Five. I need to run a check on an American naval officer named Peter Jordan."

  A pause. Boothby drummed his fingers on the desk, Vicary softly kicked at the pattern in Boothby's Persian rug with the scuffed toe of his shoe.

  Boothby said, "Yes, I'm still here. . . . He is? Oh, bloody hell! You'd better find General Eisenhower. I need to see him straightaway. I'll contact the prime minister's office myself. I'm afraid we have a rather serious problem."

  Boothby slowly replaced the receiver and looked up at Vicary, his face the color of ash.

  Frozen fog hung like gunsmoke over Hampstead Heath. Catherine Blake, sitting on a bench surrounded by beech trees, lit a cigarette. She could see for several hundred yards in every direction. She was confident she was alone. Neumann appeared out of the fog, hands pushed deeply into his coat pockets, walking like a man with somewhere to go. When he was a few feet away Catherine said, "I want to talk to you. It's all right, we're alone." He sat down on the bench next to her and she gave him a cigarette, which he lit with hers.

  She handed him an envelope containing the film. "I'm fairly certain this is what they're looking for," she said. "He brought it home with him last night--a book detailing the project he's working on. I photographed the entire thing."

  Neumann pocketed the envelope. "Congratulations, Catherine. I'll make sure it gets safely into the hands of our friend from the Portuguese embassy."

  "There's something else on that film," she said. "I've asked Vogel to pull us out. Some things have gone wrong. I don't think my cover is going to hold up much longer."

  "Would you like to tell me about it?"

  "The less you know the better, believe me."

  "You're the professional. I'm just the errand boy."

  "Just be ready to pull out at a moment's notice."

  She stood up and walked away.

  "Come in and sit down, Alfred," Boothby said. "I'm afraid we have a Force Twelve disaster on our hands." Boothby gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. He had just walked in the door, and his cashmere overcoat still hung like a cape from his shoulders. He shed the coat and handed it to his secretary, who was eyeing him with the intensity of a retriever, waiting for his next command. "Coffee, please. And no interruptions. Thank you."

  Vicary lowered himself into the chair. He was feeling peeved. Sir Basil had been gone three hours. The last time Vicary had seen Boothby he was rushing out the door muttering something about mulberries. The code word meant nothing to Vicary. For all he knew it was a tree that produced sweet fruit. Vicary had spent the entire time pacing his office, wondering how bad the damage really was. But there was something else that bothered him. The case had been his from the beginning, and yet it was Boothby who was briefing Eisenhower and Churchill.

  The secretary came in, bearing a tray with a silver pot of coffee and dainty china cups. She placed it carefully on Boothby's desk and went out again. Boothby poured. "Milk, Alfred? It's real."

  "Yes, thank you."

  "What I am about to tell you is highly classified," Boothby began. "Very few people even know of its existence--a handful of top invasion planners and the men on the project itself. Even I knew only the barest details. Until today, that is."

  Boothby reached inside his briefcase, withdrew a chart, and spread it over the surface of the desk. He put on his reading glasses, which he had never worn in Vicary's presence, and used his gold pen as a pointer.

  "Here are the beaches of Normandy," he began, tapping the map with his pen. "Here is the Baie de la Seine. The invasion planners have concluded that the only way to bring men and supplies ashore quickly enough to sustain the operation is through a large, fully functioning harbor. Without one, the invasion would be a complete fiasco."

  Vicary, listening intently, nodded.

  "There is just one problem with a harbor--we aren't planning on capturing one," Boothby said. "The result is this."
Boothby reached inside his briefcase again and withdrew another chart of the same section of the French coast, except this one had a series of markings depicting a structure along the shoreline. "It's called Operation Mulberry. We're constructing two complete artificial harbors here in Britain and towing them across the Channel on D-Day."

  "Good Lord," Vicary muttered.

  "You're about to be inducted into a very small fraternity, Alfred. Pay close attention." Boothby was using his pen as a pointer again. "These are giant steel floats that will be moored a couple of miles from the coastline. They're designed to dampen the waves as they roll toward shore. Here, they're going to sink several old merchantmen in a line to create a breakwater. That part of the operation is code-named Gooseberry. These are floating roadways with pier heads at the end. The Liberty ships will dock at the pier heads. The supplies will be loaded directly onto trucks and brought to shore."

  "Remarkable," Vicary said.

  "The backbone of the entire project is these things, here, here, and here," Boothby said, tapping three points on the chart with his pen. "Their code name is Phoenix. They do not rise, however. They sink. They're giant concrete and steel caissons that will be towed across the Channel and sunk in a row to create an inner breakwater. They are the most critical component of Operation Mulberry." Boothby hesitated a moment. "Commander Peter Jordan is assigned to that operation."

  "My God," Vicary muttered.

  "It gets worse, I'm afraid. The Phoenix project is in trouble. They're planning to build one hundred and forty-five of them. The structures are huge--sixty feet high. Some have their own crew quarters and antiaircraft batteries. They require immense amounts of concrete, steel reinforcement, and highly skilled labor. The project has been hampered with shortages of raw materials and construction delays from the beginning."

  Boothby folded up the charts and locked them in his desk drawer.

  "Last night Commander Peter Jordan was ordered to tour the construction sites in the south and make a realistic assessment of whether the Phoenix units can be completed on time. He walked out of Forty-seven Grosvenor Square with a briefcase chained to his wrist. Inside that briefcase were the plans for the Phoenixes."

  "Good God Almighty!" Vicary said. "Why the hell did he do that?"

  "His family owns the home he's living in here in London. There's a secure safe inside. SHAEF Intelligence inspected it and gave it their stamp of approval."

  Vicary thought, None of this would have happened if Boothby had passed along my damned security alert! He said, "So if Commander Jordan has been compromised it's possible a major portion of the plans for Operation Mulberry have fallen into German hands."

  "I'm afraid so," Boothby said. "And there's more bad news. Mulberry, by its nature, could betray the secret of the invasion. The Germans know we need ports to successfully carry out an invasion of the Continent. They expect us to stage a frontal assault on a port and reopen it as quickly as possible. If they discover we're building an artificial harbor--some means of circumventing the heavily fortified ports of Calais--they may very well conclude we're coming at Normandy."

  "My God! Who in the bloody hell is Commander Peter Jordan?"

  Boothby dug in his briefcase again. He brought out a thin file and tossed it across the desk. "He used to be the chief engineer at the Northeast Bridge Company. It's one of the largest bridge construction companies in America. He's considered something of a wunderkind. He was brought onto Operation Mulberry because of his experience overseeing large construction projects."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Still in the south inspecting the sites. He's due back at Grosvenor Square at seven o'clock. He was supposed to meet with Eisenhower and Ismay at eight o'clock to brief them on his findings. I want you and Harry to pick him up at Grosvenor Square--very quietly--and take him to the house at Richmond. We'll question him there. I want you to handle the interrogation."

  "Thank you, Sir Basil." Vicary rose.

  "At the very least you're going to need Jordan's help to roll up your network."

  "True," Vicary said. "But we may need more help, depending on the extent of the damage."

  "You have an idea, Alfred?"

  "The beginnings of one." Vicary rose. "I'd like to see the inside of Jordan's house before I question him. Any objections?"

  "No," Boothby said. "But softly, Alfred, very softly."

  "Don't worry. I'll be discreet."

  "Some of the watchers specialize in that sort of thing--breaking and entering, you know."

  "Actually, I have someone in mind for the job."

  Harry Dalton worked the thin metal tool inside the lock on Peter Jordan's front door. Vicary stood facing the street, shielding Harry from view. After a moment Vicary heard the faint click of the lock giving way. Harry, like a consummate professional thief, opened the door as if he owned the place and led them inside.

  "You're damned good at that," Vicary said.

  "I saw someone do it in a movie once."

  "Somehow, I don't believe that story."

  "I always knew you were an intelligent bloke." Harry closed the door. "Wipe your feet."

  Vicary opened the door to the drawing room and went inside. His eyes ran over the leather-covered furniture, the rugs, the photographs of bridges on the walls. He walked to the fireplace and examined the silver-framed photos on the mantel.

  "Must be his wife," Harry said. "She was beautiful."

  "Yes," Vicary said. He had quickly read the copy of Jordan's service file and background check given to him by Boothby. "Her name was Margaret Lauterbach-Jordan. She was killed in an automobile accident on New York's Long Island shortly before the war broke out."

  They crossed the hall and looked inside the dining room and the kitchen. Harry tried the next door and found it was locked. Vicary said, "Open it."

  Harry knelt down and worked the tool inside the lock. A moment later he turned the latch and they went inside. It was furnished as a working office, certainly for a man: a desk of dark stained wood, a chair of fine leather, and, a unique feature that said much about the occupant, a drafting table and stool that an engineer or an architect might use. Vicary switched on the desk lamp and said, "What a perfect place to photograph documents." The safe was next to the desk. It was old and looked as though it weighed at least five hundred pounds. Vicary looked closely at the legs and noticed they were bolted to the floor. He said, "Let's take a look upstairs."

  There were three bedrooms, two overlooking the street, a third larger room at the back of the house. The two in front were obviously guest rooms. The wardrobes were empty and there were no personal touches of any kind. Vicary led them into Jordan's room. The double bed was unmade, the shades raised on windows overlooking a small, unkempt walled garden. Vicary opened the Edwardian wardrobe and looked inside: two U.S. Navy uniforms, several pairs of wool civilian trousers, a stack of sweaters, and several neatly folded shirts bearing the name of a men's shop in Manhattan. He closed the wardrobe and looked around the room. If she had been here she had left no trace, only a faint breath of perfume that hung in the air and reminded Vicary of the fragrance that Helen had worn.

  Who is this, please? Oh, bloody hell!

  Vicary looked at Harry and said, "Go downstairs, quietly open the door to the study, go inside, and close it again."

  Harry came back two minutes later. "Did you hear anything?"

  "Not a sound."

  "So it's possible she may be slipping into his study at night and photographing everything he brings home."

  "We have to assume that, yes. Check out the bathroom. See if she's left any personal items here at all."

  Vicary could hear Harry rattling around inside the medicine chest. He came back into the bedroom and said, "Nothing belonging to a woman in there."

  "All right. I've seen enough for now."

  They went downstairs again, made certain the door to the study was locked, and let themselves out the front door. They had parked around the corner. As they t
urned onto the pavement Vicary looked up at the terrace of houses across the street. He looked down again very quickly. He could have sworn he saw a face in a darkened window looking back at him. A man's face--dark eyes, black hair, thin lips. He glanced upward again but this time the face was gone.

  Horst Neumann played a game with himself to help ease the tedium of waiting: he memorized faces. He had become good at it. He could glance at several faces--on the train or in a crowded square--commit each to memory, then mentally flip through them, the way one looks at photographs in an album. He was spending so much time on the Hunstanton-to-Liverpool-Street run that he was beginning to see familiar faces all the time. The chubby salesman who always fondled his girlfriend's leg before kissing her good-bye at Cambridge and going home to his wife. The spinster who seemed forever on the verge of tears. The war widow who always gazed out the window and, Neumann imagined, saw her husband's face in the passing gray-green countryside. In Cavendish Square he knew all the regulars: the residents of the houses surrounding the square, the people who liked to come sit on the benches among the dormant plants. It was monotonous work, but it kept his mind sharp and helped pass the time.

  The fat man came at three o'clock--the same gray overcoat, the same bowler hat, the same jittery air of a decent man embarking on a life of crime. The diplomat unlocked the door to the house and went inside. Neumann crossed the square and slipped the envelope through the slot. He heard the familiar grunt as the chubby diplomat stooped to retrieve it.

  Neumann returned to his spot on the square and waited. The diplomat came out a few minutes later, found a taxi, and was gone. Neumann waited for a few minutes to make certain the taxi was not being followed.

  Neumann had two hours before his train. He stood up and started walking toward Portman Square. He passed by the bookshop and saw the girl through the window. The shop was empty. She was sitting behind the counter reading the same volume of Eliot she had sold him last week. She seemed to sense someone was watching her, because she looked up suddenly as if startled. Then she recognized him, smiled, and gestured for him to come inside. Neumann opened the door and walked in. "It's time for my break now," she said. "There's a cafe across the street. Will you join me? My name's Sarah, by the way."