Where was he now? Northumberland Avenue. He walked more slowly, listening to the pleasant growl of the late-afternoon traffic. He looked up and saw an attractive young woman staring impatiently at the passing cars. It was Grace Clarendon, there was no mistaking her shock of white-blond hair and her bloodred lips. A large black Humber pulled to the curb. Boothby's. The door opened and Grace climbed inside. The car slid into the traffic. Vicary turned his head and looked away as the car swept past him.
Vicary rode to West Halkin Street. Night had fallen, and with it had come a drenching downpour like a springtime thunderstorm. Vicary rubbed a hole in the condensation on his window and looked out. Crowds of Londoners moved along the pavements like refugees fleeing an advancing army--huddled beneath raincoats and umbrellas, some turned inside out by the wind, blackout torches peering weakly into the wet gloom. Vicary thought of the strange twist of fate that had placed him in the back of a government car and not out there with the rest of them. He thought suddenly of Helen and wondered where she was--somewhere safe and dry, he hoped. He thought of Grace Clarendon, climbing into the back of Boothby's car, and wondered what the hell she was doing there. Was it a very simple answer? Was she sleeping with Boothby and Harry at the same time? Or was it something more sinister? He remembered the words shouted in anger at Boothby behind the closed doors of his office: You can't do this to me! Bastard! Bloody bastard! Vicary thought, Tell me what he made you do, Grace, because for the life of me I can't figure it out on my own.
The car stopped outside the house. Vicary climbed out and, holding his briefcase as a shield against the rain, hurried inside. It felt like a West End theater preparing for an uncertain opening night. He had come to enjoy the atmosphere of the place--the noisy chatter of the watchers as they dressed in their foul-weather gear for a night on the streets, the technician checking to make sure he was receiving a good signal from the microphones inside Jordan's house, the smell of cooking drifting from the kitchen.
Something about Vicary's appearance must have radiated tension, because no one spoke to him as he picked his way through the clutter of the situation room and climbed the stairs to the library. He removed his mackintosh and hung it on the hook behind the door. He placed his briefcase on the desk. Then he walked across the hall and found Peter Jordan standing in front of a mirror, dressing in his naval uniform.
He thought, If the watchers are my stagehands, Jordan is my star and the uniform his costume.
Vicary watched him carefully. He seemed uncomfortable pulling on the uniform--the way Vicary felt when he dug out his black tie once a decade and tried to remember what went where and how. Vicary cleared his throat gently to announce his presence. Jordan turned his head, stared at Vicary for an instant, then returned his attention to his own image in the glass.
Jordan said, "When is it going to end?"
It had become part of their evening ritual. Each night, before Vicary sent Jordan off to meet Catherine Blake with a new load of Kettledrum material in his briefcase, Jordan asked the same question. Vicary always deflected it. But now he said, "Actually, it may be over very soon."
Jordan looked up sharply, then looked at an empty chair and said, "Sit down. You look like hell. When's the last time you slept?"
"I believe it was a night in May 1940," Vicary said, and lowered himself into the chair.
"I don't suppose you can tell me why this is all about to end soon, can you?"
Vicary shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid I can't."
"I didn't think so."
"Does it make a difference to you?"
"Not really, I suppose."
Jordan finished dressing. He lit a cigarette and sat down opposite Vicary. "Am I allowed to ask you any questions?"
"That depends entirely on the question."
Jordan smiled pleasantly. "It's obvious to me you're not a career intelligence officer. What did you do before the war?"
"I was a professor of European history at University College London." It sounded odd to Vicary just saying it, as though he were reading from someone else's resume. It seemed like a lifetime ago--two lifetimes ago.
"How did you end up working for MI-Five?"
Vicary hesitated, decided he was violating no security edict by answering, and told him the story.
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"Sometimes. And then there are times when I detest it and can't wait to get back behind the walls of academia and bar the door."
"Like when?"
"Like now," Vicary said flatly.
Jordan had no reaction. It was as if he understood no intelligence officer, no matter how callused, could actually enjoy an operation like this.
"Married?"
"No."
"Ever been?"
"Never."
"Why not?"
Vicary thought that sometimes God's coincidences were too vulgar to contemplate. Three hours earlier he had answered the same question in front of the woman who knew the answer. And now his agent was asking him the same bloody thing. He smiled weakly and said, "I suppose I never found the right woman."
Jordan was studying him. Vicary felt it and didn't quite like it. He was used to the relationship being the other way around--with Jordan and with the German spies he had handled. It was Vicary who did the prying, Vicary who broke open the locked vaults of emotion and picked at old wounds until they bled, Vicary who probed for the weak spots and thrust in the dagger. He supposed it was one of the reasons he was a good Double Cross officer. The job allowed him to gaze into the lives of strangers and exploit their personal defects without having to face his own. He thought of Karl Becker sitting in his cell in his drab prison pajamas. Vicary realized he liked being the one in total control, the one doing the manipulating and the deceiving, the one pulling the strings. He thought, Am I this way because Helen tossed me away twenty-five years ago? He dug a packet of Players from his jacket and absently lit one.
Jordan propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin on his fist. He frowned and stared back at Vicary as if Vicary were an unstable bridge in danger of collapse.
"I think you probably found the right woman somewhere along the way and she didn't return the favor."
"I say--"
"Ah, so I'm right after all."
Vicary blew smoke at the ceiling. "You're an intelligent man. I always knew that."
"What was her name?"
"Her name was Helen."
"What happened?"
"Sorry, Peter."
"Ever see her now?"
Vicary, shaking his head, said, "No."
"Any regrets?"
Vicary thought of Helen's words. I didn't want you to tell me I'd ruined your life. Had she ruined his life? He liked to tell himself that she had not. Like most single men, he liked to tell himself how fortunate he was not to be burdened with a wife and a family. He had his privacy and his work and he liked not having to answer to anyone else in the world. He had enough money to do whatever he wanted. His house was decorated to his taste, and he didn't have to worry about anyone rummaging through his belongings or his papers. But in truth he was lonely--sometimes terribly lonely. In truth he wished he had someone to share his triumphs and his disappointments. He wished someone wanted to share theirs with him. When he stood back and looked at his life objectively, it was missing something: laughter, tenderness, a little noise and disorder sometimes. It was half a life, he realized. Half a life, half a home, ultimately half a man.
Do I have regrets? "Yes, I have a regret," Vicary said, surprised to hear himself actually saying the words. "I regret my failure to marry has deprived me of children. I always thought it must be wonderful to be a father. I think I would have been a good one, in spite of all my quirks and shortcomings."
A smile flickered across Jordan's face in the half darkness, then dissipated. "My son is my entire world. He's my link with the past and my glimpse into the future. He's all that I have left, the only thing that's real. Margaret's gone, Catherine w
as a lie." He paused, staring at the dying ember of his cigarette. "I can't wait for this to end so I can go home to him. I keep thinking what I'm going to say when he asks me, 'Daddy, what did you do in the war?' What in the hell am I supposed to tell him?"
"The truth. Tell him you were a gifted engineer, and you built a contraption that helped us win the war."
"But that's not the truth."
Something about the tone of Jordan's voice made Vicary look up sharply. He thought, Which part isn't the truth?
Vicary said, "Do you mind if I ask a couple of questions now?"
"I thought you were allowed to ask anything you liked, with or without my permission."
"Different setting, different reason for asking."
"Go ahead."
"Did you love her?"
"Have you ever seen her?"
Vicary realized he never had seen her in person, only in surveillance photographs.
"Yes, I loved her. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she was charming, and obviously she was an incredibly talented actress. And believe it or not, I thought she would make a good mother for my son."
"Do you still love her?"
Jordan looked away. "I love the person I thought she was. I don't love the woman you tell me she is. Part of me almost believes this is all some kind of joke. So I suppose you and I have one thing in common."
"What's that?" Vicary asked.
"We both fell in love with the wrong woman."
Vicary laughed. He looked at his wristwatch and said, "It's getting late."
"Yes," Jordan said.
Vicary stood and led Jordan across the hall into the library. He unlocked his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers from inside. He handed Jordan the papers and Jordan placed them inside his own briefcase. They stood in an awkward silence before Vicary said, "I'm sorry. If there was some other way to do this, I would. But there isn't. Not yet, at least."
Jordan said nothing.
"There's one thing that always bothered me about your interrogation: why you couldn't remember the names of the men who first approached you about working on Operation Mulberry."
"I met dozens of people that week. I can't remember half of them."
"You said one of them was English."
"Yes."
"Was his name Broome, by any chance?"
"No, his name wasn't Broome," Jordan said without hesitation. "I think I'd remember that. I probably should be going."
Jordan moved toward the door.
"I just have one more question."
Jordan turned and said, "What's that?"
"You are Peter Jordan, aren't you?"
"What in the hell kind of question is that?"
"It's a rather simple one really. Are you Peter Jordan?"
"Of course I'm Peter Jordan. You know, you really should get some sleep, Professor."
47
LONDON
Clive Roach was sitting at a window table in the cafe across the street from Catherine Blake's flat. The waitress brought his tea and his bun. He immediately placed a few coins on the table. It was a habit developed from his work. Roach usually had to leave cafes on short notice and in a hurry. The last thing he needed to do was attract attention. He sipped his tea and halfheartedly leafed through a morning paper. He was not really interested. He was more interested in the doorway across the street. The rain fell harder. He was not looking forward to going out in it again. It was the one aspect of his job he did not like--the constant exposure to foul weather. He'd had more colds and bronchial infections than he could remember.
Before the war he had been a teacher at a down-at-the-heel boys' school. He decided to enlist in the army in 1939. He was far from the ideal soldier--thin, pasty skin, sparse hair, an underpowered voice. Hardly officer material. At the induction center he noticed he was being watched by a pair of sharp-suited men in the corner. He also noticed they had requested a copy of his file and were poring over it with great interest. A few minutes later they pulled him from the queue, told him they were from Military Intelligence, and offered him a job.
Roach liked watching. He was a natural people watcher and he had a flair for names and faces. He knew there would be no medals for battlefield heroics, no stories he could tell down at the pub when the war was over. But it was an important job and Roach did it well. He ate his bun, thinking of Catherine Blake. He had followed many German spies since 1939, but she was the best. A real pro. She had embarrassed him once, but he had vowed he would never let it happen again.
He finished his bun and drank the last of his tea. He looked up from his table and saw her coming out of her block of flats. He marveled at her tradecraft. She always stood still for a moment, doing something prosaic, while scanning the street for any sign of surveillance. Today, she was fumbling with her umbrella as if it were broken. Roach thought, You're very good, Miss Blake. But I'm better.
He watched as she finally snapped up her umbrella and started walking. Roach got up, pulled on his coat, and walked out the door after her.
Horst Neumann came awake as the train clattered through London's northeastern suburbs. He glanced at his wristwatch: ten thirty. They were due in at Liverpool Street at ten twenty-three. Miraculously, they would be only a few minutes late. He yawned, stretched, and sat up in his seat. He looked out the window at the bleak Victorian tenement houses sweeping past. Dirty children waved at the passing train. Neumann, feeling ridiculously English, waved back. There were three other passengers in his compartment, a pair of soldiers and a young woman who wore the overalls of a factory worker and pulled a frown of concern when she first saw Neumann's bandaged face. He glanced at each of them now. He always worried about talking in his sleep, though the last few nights he had dreamt in English. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. God, but he was tired. Up at five o'clock, out of the cottage by six so Sean could give him a lift to Hunstanton, the seven twelve from Hunstanton to Liverpool Street.
He had not slept well the previous night. It was the pain of his injuries and the presence of Jenny Colville in his bed. She had risen with him before dawn, slipped out of the Dogherty cottage, and pedaled home through the dark and the rain. Neumann hoped she made it safely. He hoped Martin wasn't waiting for her. It was a stupid thing to do, letting her spend the night with him. He thought about how she would feel when he was gone. When he never wrote and she never heard from him again. He worried about how she would feel if she ever discovered the truth--that he was not James Porter, a wounded British soldier looking for peace and quiet in a Norfolk village. That he was Horst Neumann, a decorated German paratrooper who came to England to spy and who had deceived her in the worst way. He had not deceived her about one thing. He cared for her. Not in the way she would like, but he did care about what happened to her.
The train slowed as it approached Liverpool Street. Neumann stood, pulled on his reefer coat, and stepped out of the compartment. The corridor was packed. He shuffled amid the other passengers toward the door. Someone ahead of him threw it open, and Neumann stepped from the still-moving train. He gave his ticket to the ticket collector and walked along a dank passageway to the underground station. There, he purchased a ticket for Temple and caught the next train. A few minutes later, he was walking up the stairs and heading north toward the Strand.
Catherine Blake took a taxi to Charing Cross. The rendezvous point was a short distance away, in front of a shop on the Strand. She paid off the driver and threw up her umbrella against the rain. She started walking. At a phone box, she stopped, picked up the receiver, and pretended to place a call. She looked behind her. The heavy rain had reduced visibility, but she could see no sign of the opposition. She replaced the receiver, stepped from the phone box, and continued eastward along the Strand.
Clive Roach slipped from the back of a surveillance van and followed her along the Strand. During the brief ride he had shed his mackintosh and brimmed hat and changed into a dark green oilskin coat and woolen cap. The transformation was r
emarkable--from a clerk to a laborer. Roach watched as Catherine Blake stopped to place the ersatz telephone call. Roach paused at a newspaper vendor. Browsing through the headlines, he pictured the face of the agent Professor Vicary had code-named Rudolf. Roach's assignment was simple: tail Catherine Blake until she handed her material to Rudolf, then follow him. He looked up in time to see her replacing the receiver in the cradle and stepping from the phone box. Roach melted into the pedestrians and followed her.
Neumann spotted Catherine Blake walking toward him. He paused at a shop, eyes scanning the faces and the clothing of the pedestrians behind her on the pavement. As she drew closer, Neumann turned from the window and started walking toward her. The contact was brief, a second or two. But when it was over Neumann had the film in his hand and was shoving it into the pocket of his coat. She moved quickly on, disappearing into the crowd. Neumann continued in the opposite direction for a few feet, recording the faces. Then he abruptly stopped at another shop window, turned, and followed softly after her.
Clive Roach spotted Rudolf and saw the exchange. He thought, Smooth bastards, aren't you? He watched as Rudolf paused, then turned and walked in the same direction as Catherine Blake. Roach had witnessed many meetings by German agents since 1939, but never had he seen one agent turn and follow the other. Usually, they went their separate ways. Roach turned the collar of his oilskin up around his ears and floated carefully behind them.
Catherine Blake walked eastward along the Strand, then down to Victoria Embankment. It was then she spotted Neumann behind her. Her first reaction was anger. Standard rendezvous procedure was to part company--and quickly--as soon as the handover was complete. Neumann knew the procedure and had executed it faultlessly every time. She thought, Why is he following me now?