She waved and yelled and started to cry. She wanted to tell them that she had done it. She was the one who disabled the motor so the boat stopped and the spies couldn't make it to the U-boat. She was filled with an enormous, fierce pride.
The Camilla rose on a gigantic roller. As the wave passed beneath the boat, it pitched wildly to the port side. Then it fell downward into the trough and, at the same time, righted itself and rolled over on its starboard side. Jenny was unable to keep her grip on the top of the companionway. She was thrown across the deck and into the sea.
The cold was like nothing she had ever felt: shocking, numbing, paralyzing cold. She fought her way to the surface and tried to gasp for air but she swallowed a mouthful of seawater instead. She sank below the surface, gagging, choking, taking more water into her stomach and her lungs. She kicked to the surface and was able to take a small breath before the sea pulled her down again. Then she was falling, sinking slowly, pleasantly, effortlessly. She was no longer cold. She felt nothing, saw nothing. Only an impenetrable darkness.
The Rebecca arrived first, Lockwood and Roach in the wheelhouse, Harry and Peter Jordan on the foredeck. Harry tied a line to the life ring, tied off the other end in a cleat on the prow, and threw the ring overboard. They had seen Jenny come up for air a second time and disappear below the surface. Now there was nothing, no sign of her at all. Lockwood brought the Rebecca in hard and straight; then, a few yards from the Camilla, he reversed the engine, bringing the boat to a shuddering halt.
Jordan leaned over the prow, looking for any sign of the girl. Then he stood and, with no warning, dived into the water. Harry shouted back to Lockwood, "Jordan's in the water! Don't get any closer!"
Jordan surfaced and removed his life vest. Harry screamed, "What are you doing?"
"I can't get deep enough with this damned thing on!"
Jordan filled his lungs with air and was gone for what seemed to Harry like a minute. The sea was beating against the port side of the Camilla, forcing it to roll from side to side and driving it toward the Rebecca. Harry turned over his shoulder and waved his arms at Lockwood in the wheelhouse.
"Back off a few feet! The Camilla's right on top of us!"
Jordan finally surfaced, Jenny in his arms. She was unconscious, her head to one side. Jordan untied the line from the life ring and tied it around Jenny beneath her arms. He gave Harry a thumbs-up sign, and Harry pulled her through the water toward the Rebecca. Clive Roach helped Harry lift her onto the deck.
Jordan was furiously treading water, waves washing over his face, and he looked exhausted from the cold. Harry quickly untied the line from Jenny and threw it overboard toward him--just as the Camilla finally capsized and dragged Peter Jordan under the sea.
PART FIVE
61
BERLIN: APRIL 1944
Kurt Vogel was cooling his heels in Walter Schellenberg's luxuriously appointed anteroom, watching the squadron of young assistants scurrying feverishly in and out of the office. Blond, blue-eyed, they looked as though they had just leapt from a Nazi propaganda poster. It had been three hours since Schellenberg had summoned Vogel for an urgent consultation about "that unfortunate business in Britain," as he habitually referred to Vogel's blown operation. Vogel didn't mind the wait; he didn't really have anything better to do. Since Canaris had been sacked and the Abwehr absorbed by the SS, German military intelligence had become a ship without a rudder, just when Hitler needed it most. The old town houses along Tirpitz Ufer had taken on the despondent air of an aging resort out of season. Morale was so low, many officers were volunteering for the Russian front.
Vogel had other plans.
One of Schellenberg's aides came out, jabbed an accusing finger at Vogel, and wordlessly waved him inside. The office was as big as a Gothic cathedral, with magnificent oil paintings and tapestries hanging on the walls, a far cry from Canaris's understated Fox's Lair at Tirpitz Ufer. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows. Vogel looked out. Fires from the morning's air raid smoldered along Unter den Linden, and a fine soot drifted over the Tiergarten like black snow.
Schellenberg smiled warmly, pumped Vogel's bony hand, and gestured for him to sit down. Vogel knew about the machine guns in Schellenberg's desk, so he kept very still and left his hands in plain sight. The doors closed, and they were alone in the cavernous office. Vogel felt Schellenberg feeding on him with his eyes.
Though Schellenberg and Himmler had been plotting against Canaris for years, a chain of unfortunate events had finally done in the Old Fox: his failure to predict Argentina's decision to sever all ties with Germany; the loss of a vital Abwehr intelligence-gathering post in Spanish Morocco; the defections of several key Abwehr officers in Turkey, Casablanca, Lisbon, and Stockholm. But the final straw was the disastrous conclusion of Vogel's operation in London. Two Abwehr agents--Horst Neumann and Catherine Blake--had been killed within sight of the U-boat. They had been unable to transmit a final message explaining why they had decided to flee England, leaving Vogel with no way to judge the authenticity of the information Catherine Blake had stolen on Operation Mulberry. Hitler exploded when he heard the news. He immediately fired Canaris and placed the Abwehr and its sixteen thousand agents in the hands of Schellenberg.
Somehow, Vogel survived. Schellenberg and Himmler suspected the operation had been compromised by Canaris. Vogel--like Catherine Blake and Horst Neumann--was an innocent victim of the Old Fox's treachery.
Vogel had another theory. He suspected all the information stolen by Catherine Blake had been planted by British Intelligence. He suspected she and Neumann attempted to flee Britain when Neumann discovered she was being watched by the opposition. He suspected Operation Mulberry was not an antiaircraft complex destined for the Pas de Calais but an artificial harbor bound for the beaches of Normandy. He also suspected all the other agents sent to Britain were bad--that they had been captured and forced to cooperate with British Intelligence, probably from the outset of the war.
Vogel, however, lacked the evidence to substantiate any of this--good lawyer that he was, he did not intend to bring charges he could not prove. Besides, even if he had the proof in his possession, he wasn't sure he would have given it to the likes of Schellenberg and Himmler.
One of the telephones on Schellenberg's desk rang. It was a call he had to take. He grunted and spoke in a guarded code for five minutes while Vogel waited. The snowstorm of soot had diminished. The ruins of Berlin shone in the April sun. Shattered glass sparkled like ice crystals.
Remaining at the Abwehr and cooperating with the new regime had its advantages. Vogel had quietly slipped Gertrude, Nicole, and Lizbet from Bavaria to Switzerland. Like a good agent runner, he had financed the operation with an elaborate shell game, moving funds from secret Abwehr accounts in Switzerland to Gertrude's personal account, then covering the exchange with his own money in Germany. He had moved enough money out of the country to enable them to live comfortably for a couple of years after the war. He had another asset, the information he possessed in his mind. The British and Americans, he felt certain, would pay handsomely in money and protection.
Schellenberg rang off and made a face as though he had a sour stomach.
"So," he said. "The reason I asked you to come today, Captain Vogel. Some exciting news from London."
"Oh?" Vogel said, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes. Our source inside MI-Five has some very interesting information."
Schellenberg produced a signal flimsy with a flourish and presented it to Vogel. Reading it, Vogel thought, Remarkable, the subtlety of the manipulation. He finished and handed the flimsy across the desk to Schellenberg.
Schellenberg said, "For MI-Five to take disciplinary action against a man who is a personal friend and confidant of Winston Churchill is extraordinary. And the source is impeccable. I recruited him personally. He's not one of Canaris's flunkies. I believe it proves the information stolen by your agent was genuine, Captain Vogel."
"Yes, I believe you're ri
ght, Herr Brigadefuhrer."
"The Fuhrer needs to be told of this right away. He's meeting with the Japanese ambassador at Berchtesgaden tonight to brief him on preparations for the invasion. I'm sure he'll want to pass this along."
Vogel nodded.
"I'm leaving on a plane from Tempelhof in one hour. I'd like you to come with me and personally brief the Fuhrer. After all, it was your operation to begin with. And besides, the man has taken a liking to you. You have a very bright future, Captain Vogel."
"Thank you for the offer, Herr Brigadefuhrer, but I think you should tell the Fuhrer about the news."
"Are you certain, Captain Vogel?"
"Yes, Herr Brigadefuhrer, I'm quite certain."
62
OYSTER BAY, NEW YORK
It was the first fine day of spring--warm sunshine, a soft wind from the Sound. The day before had been cold and damp. Dorothy Lauterbach had worried that the memorial service and reception would be ruined by the cold. She made certain all the fireplaces in the house were laid with wood and ordered the caterer to have plenty of hot coffee ready for when the guests arrived. But by midmorning the sun had burned away the last of the clouds, and the island sparkled. Dorothy quickly moved the reception from the house to the lawn overlooking the Sound.
Shepherd Ramsey had brought Peter's things from London: his clothes, his books, his letters, the personal papers that the security men had not seized. Ramsey, sitting on the transport plane from London, had leafed through the letters to make certain there was no mention of the woman Peter was seeing in London before his death.
The graveside ceremony was packed. There was no body to bury, but they laid a small headstone next to Margaret's. All of Bratton's bank attended, as did most of the staff of the Northeast Bridge Company. The North Shore crowd came too--the Blakemores and the Brandenbergs, the Carlisles and the Duttons, the Robinsons and the Tetlingers. Billy stood next to Jane, and Jane leaned against Walker Hardegen. Bratton accepted the American flag from a representative of the navy. The wind tore blossoms from the trees and tossed them on the crowd like confetti.
One man stood slightly apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed respectfully. He was tall and thin, and his double-breasted suit of gray wool was a little too heavy for the warm spring weather.
Walker Hardegen was the only person present who recognized him. Hardegen did not know the man's real name. He always used a pseudonym that was so ridiculous Hardegen had trouble saying it without laughing.
The man was Hardegen's control officer, and the pseudonym he used was Broome.
Shepherd Ramsey carried the letter from the man in London. Dorothy and Bratton slipped into the library and read it during the reception. Dorothy read it first, hands trembling. She was older now, older and grayer. A fall on the icy steps of the Manhattan house in December had left her with a broken hip. The resulting limp had robbed her of her old physical presence. Her eyes were damp when she finished reading, but she did not cry. Dorothy always did things in moderation. She handed the letter to Bratton, who wept as he read.
Dear Billy,
It is with great sadness that I write this letter. I had the pleasure of working with your father for only a very brief period, but I found him to be one of the most remarkable men I have ever met. He was involved in one of the most vital projects of the war. Because of the requirements of security, however, there is a strong possibility you may never be told exactly what your father did.
I can tell you this--the work done by your father will save countless lives and make it possible for the people of Europe to be rid of Hitler and the Nazis once and for all. Your father truly gave his life so that others may live. He was a hero.
But nothing your father accomplished gave him as much pleasure and satisfaction as you, Billy. When your father spoke of you his face changed. His eyes brightened and he smiled, no matter how tired he might he. I was never fortunate enough to be blessed with a son. Listening to your father talk about you, I realized the depth of my misfortune.
Sincerely, Alfred Vicary
Bratton handed the letter back to Dorothy. She folded it, put it back in its envelope, and placed it in the top drawer of Bratton's desk. She went to the window and looked out.
Everyone was eating and drinking and seemed to be having a good time. Beyond the crowd she could see Billy, Jane, and Walker sitting on the grass down by the dock. Jane and Walker had become more than friends. They had started to see each other romantically, and Jane was actually talking about marriage. She thought, Wouldn't it be perfect. Billy would have a real family again.
There was a neatness to it, a closure about the whole thing that Dorothy found comforting. It was warm again, and soon it would be summer. The houses would all be opening soon, and the parties would begin. Life goes on, she told herself. Margaret and Peter are gone, but life most definitely goes on.
63
GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND: SEPTEMBER 1944
Even Alfred Vicary was surprised at the speed with which he was able to drop out. Technically, it was an administrative leave pending the findings of the internal inquiry. Vicary understood that was gobbledygook for a sacking.
Perversely he took Basil Boothby's advice and fled to his aunt Matilda's house--he could never get used to the notion it was his--to sort himself out. The first days of his exile were appalling. He missed the camaraderie of MI5. He missed his wretched little office. He even found himself missing his camp bed, for he had lost the gift of sound sleep. He blamed it on Matilda's sagging double bed--too soft, too much room to wrestle with his troubled thoughts. In a rare flash of inspiration, he went to the village store and purchased a new camp bed. He erected it in the drawing room next to the fire, an odd location, he knew, but he had no plans for guests. From that night on he slept as well as could be expected.
He endured a long blue period of inactivity. But in the spring, when the weather warmed, he focused his boundless wasted energy on his new home. The watchers who paid the occasional visit looked on in horror as Vicary attacked his garden with pruning shears, a sickle, and his half-moon eyeglasses. They watched in amazement as he repainted the interior of the cottage. Considerable debate erupted over his choice of color, a bright institutional white. Did it mean his mood was improving, or was he making a hospital of his home and checking in for an extended stay?
There was also a good deal of concern in the village. Poole, the man from the general shop, diagnosed Vicary's mood as one of bereavement. "Not possible," said Plenderleith, the man from the nursery who advised Vicary on his garden. "Never been married, never been in love apparently." Miss Lazenby from the dress shop declared them both wrong. "Poor man's in love, any fool can see that. And by the looks of him the object of his devotion isn't returning the favor."
Vicary, even had he known of the debate, could not have settled it, for he was as much a stranger to his own emotions as those who witnessed them. The head of his department at University College sent him a letter. He had heard Vicary was no longer working at the War Office and was wondering when he might be coming back. Vicary tore the letter in half and burned it in the fireplace.
London held nothing for him--only bad memories--so he stayed away. He went just once, a morning in the first week of June, when Sir Basil summoned him to hear the results of the internal review.
"Hello, Alfred!" Sir Basil called out as Vicary was shown into Boothby's office. The room was ablaze in a fine orange light. Boothby was standing at the precise center of the floor, as though he wanted room to maneuver in all directions. He wore a perfectly cut gray suit and seemed taller than Vicary remembered. The director-general was sitting on the handsome couch, fingers interlaced as if in prayer, eyes fixed on some spot in the Persian carpet. Boothby thrust out his right hand like a bayonet and advanced on Vicary. By the chaotic smile on Boothby's face, Vicary wasn't sure if he was planning to embrace him or assault him. And he wasn't sure which he feared more.
What Boothby did do was shake V
icary's hand a little too affectionately and lay a big paw on Vicary's shoulder. It was hot and damp, as though he had just finished a set of tennis. He personally served Vicary tea and made small talk while Vicary smoked a last cigarette. Then, with considerable ceremony, he removed the review board's final report from his desk and laid it on the table. Vicary refused to look at it directly.
Boothby took too much pleasure in explaining to Vicary that he was not permitted to read the review of his own operation. Instead, Boothby showed Vicary a sanitized single-page letter purporting to "condense and summarize" the contents of the report. Vicary held it in both hands, the paper tight as a drum, so it would not shake while he read it. It was a vile, obscene document, but challenging it now would do no good. He handed it back to Boothby, shook his hand and then the director-general's, and went out.
Vicary walked downstairs. Someone else was in his office. Harry was there, an ugly scar along his jaw. Vicary was not one for long farewells. He told Harry he had been sacked, thanked him for everything, and said good-bye.
It was raining again and cold for June. The head of Transport offered Vicary a car. Vicary politely refused. He put up his umbrella and drifted back to Chelsea through the pouring rain.