The Unlikely Spy

1

Beatrice Pymm died because she missed the last bus to Ipswich.

Twenty minutes before her death she stood at the dreary bus stop and read the timetable in the dim light of the village's single streetlamp. In a few months the lamp would be extinguished to conform with the blackout regulations. Beatrice Pymm would never know of the blackout.

For now, the lamp burned just brightly enough for Beatrice to read the faded timetable. To see it better she stood on tiptoe and ran down the numbers with the end of a paint-smudged forefinger. Her late mother always complained bitterly about the paint. She thought it unladylike for one's hand to be forever soiled. She had wanted Beatrice to take up a neater hobby-music, volunteer work, even writing, though Beatrice's mother didn't hold with writers.

"Damn," Beatrice muttered, forefinger still glued to the timetable. Normally she was punctual to a fault. In a life without financial responsibility, without friends, without family, she had erected a rigorous personal schedule. Today, she had strayed from it-painted too long, started back too late.

She removed her hand from the timetable and brought it to her cheek, squeezing her face into a look of worry. Your father's face, her mother had always said with despair-a broad flat forehead, a large noble nose, a receding chin. At just thirty, hair prematurely shot with gray.

She worried about what to do. Her home in Ipswich was at least five miles away, too far to walk. In the early evening there might still be light traffic on the road. Perhaps someone would give her a lift.

She let out a long frustrated sigh. Her breath froze, hovered before her face, then drifted away on a cold wind from the marsh. The clouds shattered and a bright moon shone through. Beatrice looked up and saw a halo of ice floating around it. She shivered, feeling the cold for the first time.

She picked up her things: a leather rucksack, a canvas, a battered easel. She had spent the day painting along the estuary of the River Orwell. Painting was her only love and the landscape of East Anglia her only subject matter. It did lead to a certain repetitiveness in her work. Her mother liked to see people in art-street scenes, crowded cafes. Once she even suggested Beatrice spend some time in France to pursue her painting. Beatrice refused. She loved the marsh-lands and the dikes, the estuaries and the broads, the fen land north of Cambridge, the rolling pastures of Suffolk.

She reluctantly set out toward home, pounding along the side of the road at a good pace despite the weight of her things. She wore a mannish cotton shirt, smudged like her fingers, a heavy sweater that made her feel like a toy bear, a reefer coat too long in the sleeves, trousers tucked inside Wellington boots. She moved beyond the sphere of yellow lamplight; the darkness swallowed her. She felt no apprehension about walking through the dark in the countryside. Her mother, fearful of her long trips alone, warned incessantly of rapists. Beatrice always dismissed the threat as unlikely.

She shivered with the cold. She thought of home, a large cottage on the edge of Ipswich left to her by her mother. Behind the cottage, at the end of the garden walk, she had built a light-splashed studio, where she spent most of her time. It was not uncommon for her to go days without speaking to another human being.

All this, and more, her killer knew.

After five minutes of walking she heard the rattle of an engine behind her. A commercial vehicle, she thought. An old one, judging by the ragged engine note. Beatrice watched the glow of the headlamps spread like sunrise across the grass on either side of the roadway. She heard the engine lose power and begin to coast. She felt a gust of wind as the vehicle swept by. She choked on the stink of the exhaust.

Then she watched as it pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

The hand, visible in the bright moonlight, struck Beatrice as odd. It poked from the driver's-side window seconds after the van had stopped and beckoned her forward. A thick leather glove, Beatrice noted, the kind used by workmen who carry heavy things. A workman's overall-dark blue, maybe.

The hand beckoned once more. There it was again-something about the way it moved wasn't quite right. She was an artist, and artists know about motion and flow. And there was something else. When the hand moved it exposed the skin between the end of the sleeve and the base of the glove. Even in the poor light Beatrice could see the skin was pale and hairless-not like the wrist of any workman she had ever seen-and uncommonly slender.

Still, she felt no alarm. She quickened her pace and reached the passenger door in a few steps. She pulled open the door and set her things on the floor in front of the seat. Then she looked up into the van for the first time and noticed the driver was gone.

Beatrice Pymm, in the final conscious seconds of her life, wondered why anyone would use a van to carry a motorcycle. It was there, resting on its side in the back, two jerry cans of petrol next to it.

Still standing next to the van, she closed the door and called out. There was no answer.

Seconds later she heard the sound of a leather boot on gravel.

She heard the sound again, closer.

She turned her head and saw the driver standing there. She looked to the face and saw only a black woolen mask. Two pools of pale blue stared coldly behind the eyeholes. Feminine-looking lips, parted slightly, glistened behind the slit for the mouth.

Beatrice opened her mouth to scream. She managed only a brief gasp before the driver rammed a gloved hand into her mouth. The fingers dug into the soft flesh of her throat. The glove tasted horribly of dust, petrol, and dirty motor oil. Beatrice gagged, then vomited the remains of her picnic lunch-roast chicken, Stilton cheese, red wine.

Then she felt the other hand probing around her left breast. For an instant Beatrice thought her mother's fears about rape had finally been proved correct. But the hand touching her breast was not the hand of a molester or a rapist. The hand was skilled, like a doctor's, and curiously gentle. It moved from her breast to her ribs, pressing hard. Beatrice jerked, gasped, and bit down harder. The driver seemed not to feel it through the thick glove.

The hand reached the bottom of her ribs and probed the soft flesh at the top of her abdomen. It went no farther. One finger remained pressed against the spot. Beatrice heard a sharp click.

An instant of excruciating pain, a burst of brilliant white light.

Then, a benevolent darkness.

The killer had trained endlessly for this night, but it was the first time. The killer removed the gloved hand from the victim's mouth, turned, and was violently sick. There was no time for sentiment. The killer was a soldier-a major in the secret service-and Beatrice Pymm soon would be the enemy. Her death, while unfortunate, was necessary.

The killer wiped away the vomit from the lips of the mask and set to work, taking hold of the stiletto and pulling. The wound sucked hard but the killer pulled harder, and the stiletto slipped out.

An excellent kill, clean, very little blood.

Vogel would be proud.

The killer wiped the blood from the stiletto, snapped the blade back into place, and put it in the pocket of the overall. Then the killer grasped the body beneath the arms, dragged it to the rear of the van, and dumped it on the crumbling edge of the tarmac.

The killer opened the rear doors. The body convulsed.

It was a struggle to lift the body into the back of the van, but after a moment it was done. The engine hesitated, then fired. Then the van was on the move again, flashing through the darkened village and turning onto the deserted roadway.

The killer, composed despite the presence of the body, quietly sang a song from childhood to help pass the time. It was a long drive, four hours at least. During the preparation the killer had driven the route by motorcycle, the same bike that now lay beside Beatrice Pymm. The drive would take much longer in the van. The engine had little power, the brakes were bad, and it pulled hard to the right.

The killer vowed to steal a better one next time.

Stab wounds to the heart, as a rule, do not kill instantly. Even if the weapon penetrates a chamber, the heart usually continues to beat for some time until the victim bleeds to death.

As the van clattered along the roadway, Beatrice Pymm's chest cavity rapidly filled with blood. Her mind approached something close to a coma. She had some sense she was about to die.

She remembered her mother's warnings about being alone late at night. She felt the wet stickiness of her own blood seeping out of her body into her shirt. She wondered if her painting had been damaged.

She heard singing. Beautiful singing. It took some time, but she finally discerned that the driver was not singing in English. The song was German, the voice a woman's.

Then Beatrice Pymm died.

First stop, ten minutes later, the bank of the River Orwell, the same spot where Beatrice Pymm had been painting that day. The killer left the van's engine running and climbed out. She walked to the passenger side of the van, opened the door, and removed the easel, the canvas, and the rucksack.

The easel was erected very near the slow-moving water, the canvas placed on it. The killer opened the rucksack, removed the paints and palette, and laid them on the damp ground. She glanced at the unfinished painting and thought it was rather good. A shame she couldn't have killed someone with less talent.

Next, she removed the half-empty bottle of claret, poured the remainder of the wine into the river, and dropped the bottle at the legs of the easel. Poor Beatrice. Too much wine, a careless step, a plunge into frigid water, a slow journey to the open sea.

Cause of death: presumed drowned, presumed accidental.

Case closed.

Six hours later, the van passed through the West Midlands village of Whitchurch and turned onto a rough track skirting the edge of a barley field. The grave had been dug the previous night-deep enough to conceal a corpse but not so deep that it might never be found.

She dragged Beatrice Pymm's body from the back of the van and stripped away the bloody clothing. She took hold of the naked corpse by the feet and dragged it closer to the grave. Then the killer walked back to the van and removed three items: an iron mallet, a red brick, and a small spade.

This was the part she dreaded most, for some reason worse than the murder itself. She dropped the three items next to the body and steadied herself. Fighting off another wave of nausea she took the mallet in her gloved hand, raised it, and crushed Beatrice Pymm's nose.

When it was over she could barely look at what was left of Beatrice Pymm's face. Using first the mallet, then the brick, she had pounded it into a mass of blood, tissue, smashed bone, and shattered teeth.

She had achieved the intended effect-the features had been erased, the face rendered unrecognizable.

She had done everything they had ordered her to do. She was to be different. She had trained at a special camp for many months, much longer than the other agents. She would be planted deeper. That was why she had to kill Beatrice Pymm. She wouldn't waste her time doing what other, less gifted agents could do: counting troops, monitoring railways, assessing bomb damage. That was easy. She would be saved for bigger and better things. She would be a time bomb, ticking inside England, waiting to be activated, waiting to go off.

She put a boot against the ribs and pushed. The corpse tumbled into the grave. She covered the body with earth. She collected the bloodstained clothing and tossed it into the back of the van. From the front seat she took a small handbag containing a Dutch passport and a wallet. The wallet held identification papers, an Amsterdam driver's permit, and photographs of a fat, smiling Dutch family.

All of it had been forged by the Abwehr in Berlin.

She threw the bag into the trees at the edge of the barley field, a few yards from the grave. If everything went according to plan, the badly decomposed and mutilated body would be found in a few months, along with the handbag. The police would believe the dead woman to be Christa Kunst, a Dutch tourist who entered the country in October 1938 and whose holiday came to an unfortunate and violent end.

Before leaving, she took a last look at the grave. She felt a pang of sadness for Beatrice Pymm. In death she had been robbed of her face and her name.

Something else: the killer had just lost her own identity. For six months she had lived in Holland, for Dutch was one of her languages. She had carefully constructed a past, voted in a local Amsterdam election, even permitted herself a young lover, a boy of nineteen with a huge appetite and a willingness to learn new things. Now Christa Kunst lay in a shallow grave on the edge of an English barley field.

The killer would assume a new identity in the morning.

But tonight she was no one.

She refueled the van and drove for twenty minutes. The village of Alderton, like Beatrice Pymm, had been carefully chosen-a place where a van burning at the roadside in the middle of the night would not be noticed immediately.

She pulled the motorbike out of the van along a heavy plank of wood, difficult work even for a strong man. She struggled with the bike and gave up when it was three feet from the road. It crashed down with a loud bang, the one mistake she had made all night.

She lifted the bike and rolled it, engine dead, fifty yards down the road. Then she returned to the van. One of the jerry cans still contained some petrol. She doused the inside of the van, dumping most of the fuel on Beatrice Pymm's blood-soaked clothing.

By the time the van went up in a fireball she had kicked the bike into life. She watched the van burn for a few seconds, the orange light dancing on the barren field and the line of trees beyond.

Then she turned the bike south and headed for London.

2

Dorothy Lauterbach considered her stately fieldstone mansion the most beautiful on the North Shore. Most of her friends agreed, because she was richer and they wanted invitations to the two parties the Lauterbachs threw each summer-a raucous, drunken affair in June and a more reflective occasion in late August, when the summer season ground to a melancholy conclusion.

The back of the house looked out over the Sound. There was a pleasant beach of white sand brought by truck from Massachusetts. From the beach a well-fertilized lawn raced toward the back of the house, pausing now and again to skirt the exquisite gardens, the red clay tennis court, the royal blue swimming pool.

The servants had risen early to prepare for the family's well-deserved day of inactivity, erecting a croquet set and a badminton net that would never be touched, removing the canvas cover from a wooden motorboat that would never be untied from the dock. Once a servant courageously pointed out to Mrs. Lauterbach the folly of this daily ritual. Mrs. Lauterbach had snapped at him, and the practice was never again questioned. The toys were raised each and every morning, only to stand with the sadness of Christmas decorations in May until they were ceremoniously removed at sundown and put away for the night.

The bottom floor of the house sprawled along the water from sunroom to sitting room, to dining room, and finally to the Florida room, though none of the other Lauterbachs understood why Dorothy insisted on calling it a Florida room when the summer sun on the North Shore could be just as warm.

The house had been purchased thirty years earlier when the young Lauterbachs assumed they would produce a small army of offspring. Instead they had just two daughters who didn't care much for each other's company-Margaret, a beautiful and immensely popular socialite, and Jane. And so the house became a peaceful place of warm sunshine and soft colors, where most of the noise was made by white curtains snapping in watery breezes and Dorothy Lauterbach's restless pursuit of perfection in all things.

On that morning-the morning after the Lauterbachs' final party-the curtains hung still and straight in the open windows, waiting for a breeze that would never come. The sun blazed and a shimmering haze hung over the bay. The air was itchy and thick.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Margaret Lauterbach Jordan pulled off her nightgown and sat in front of her dressing table. She quickly brushed her hair. It was ash blond, streaked by the sun and unfashionably short. But it was comfortable and easy to manage. Besides, she liked the way it framed her face and showed off the long graceful line of her neck.

She looked at her body in the mirror. She had finally lost the last few stubborn pounds she had gained while pregnant with their first child. The stretch marks had faded and her stomach was tanned a rich brown. Bare midriffs were in that summer, and she liked the way everyone on the North Shore had been surprised by how trim she looked. Only her breasts were different-they were larger, fine with Margaret because she had always been self-conscious about their size. The new bras that summer were smaller and stiffer, designed to achieve a high-bosomed effect. Margaret liked them because Peter liked the way they made her look.

She pulled on a pair of white cotton slacks, a sleeveless blouse, knotted beneath her breasts, and a pair of flat sandals. She looked at her reflection one last time. She was beautiful-she knew that-but not in an audacious way that turned heads on the streets of Manhattan. Margaret's beauty was timeless and understated, perfect for the layer of society into which she had been born.

She thought, And soon you're going to be a fat cow again!

She turned from the mirror and drew open the curtains. Harsh sunlight spilled into the room. The lawn was in chaos. The tent was being lowered, the caterers were packing away the tables and chairs, the dance floor was being lifted panel by panel and carted away. The grass, once green and lush, had been trampled flat. She opened the windows and smelled the sickly sweet scent of spilled champagne. Something about it depressed her. "Hitler may be preparing to conquer Poland, but a glittering time was had by all who attended Bratton and Dorothy Lauterbach's annual August gala Saturday night…" Margaret could almost write the society columns herself by now.

She switched on the radio on her nightstand and tuned it to WNYC. "I'll Never Smile Again" played softly. Peter stirred, still asleep. In the brilliant sunlight his porcelain skin was barely distinguishable from the white satin sheets. Once she thought all engineers were men with flat-top haircuts, thick black glasses, and lots of pencils in their shirt pockets. Peter was not like that-strong cheekbones, a sharp jawline, soft green eyes, nearly black hair. Lying in bed now, his upper body exposed, he looked, Margaret thought, like a tumbled Michelangelo. He stood out on the North Shore, stood out from the fair-haired boys who had been born to extraordinary wealth and planned to live life from a deck chair. Peter was sharp and ambitious and brisk. He could run circles around the whole crowd. Margaret liked that.

She glanced at the hazy sky and frowned. Peter detested August weather like this. He would be irritable and cranky all day. There would probably be a thunderstorm to ruin the drive back into the city.

She thought, Perhaps I should wait to tell him the news.

"Get up, Peter, or we'll never hear the end of it," Margaret said, poking him with her toe.

"Five more minutes."

"We don't have five minutes, darling."

Peter didn't move. "Coffee," he pleaded.

The maids had left coffee outside the bedroom door. It was a practice Dorothy Lauterbach loathed; she thought it made the upstairs hallway look like the Plaza Hotel. But it was allowed if it meant that the children would abide by her single rule on weekends-that they come downstairs for breakfast promptly at nine o'clock.

Margaret poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him.

Peter rolled onto his elbow and drank some. Then he sat up in bed and looked at Margaret. "How do you manage to look so beautiful two minutes after getting out of bed?"

Margaret was relieved. "You're certainly in a good mood. I was afraid you'd have a hangover and be perfectly beastly all day."

"I do have a hangover. Benny Goodman is playing in my head, and my tongue feels like it could use a shave. But I have no intention of acting-" He paused. "What was the word you used?"

"Beastly." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "There's something we need to discuss, and this seems as fine a time as any."

"Hmm. Sounds serious, Margaret."

"That depends." She held him in her playful gaze, then feigned a look of irritation. "But get up and get dressed. Or aren't you capable of dressing and listening at the same time."

"I'm a highly trained, highly regarded engineer." Peter forced himself out of bed, groaning at the effort. "I can probably manage it."

"It's about the phone call yesterday afternoon."

"The one you were so evasive about?"

"Yes, that one. It was from Dr. Shipman."

Peter stopped dressing.

"I'm pregnant again. We're going to have another baby." Margaret looked down and toyed with the knot of her blouse. "I didn't plan for this to happen. It just did. My body has finally recovered from having Billy and-well, nature took its course." She looked up at him. "I've suspected it for some time but I was afraid to tell you."

"Why on earth would you be afraid to tell me?"

But Peter knew the answer to his own question. He had told Margaret he didn't want more children until he had realized his life's dream: starting his own engineering firm. At just thirty-three he had earned a reputation as one of the top engineers in the country. After graduating first in his class from the prestigious Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, he went to work for the Northeast Bridge Company, the largest bridge construction firm on the East Coast. Five years later he was named chief engineer, made partner, and given a staff of one hundred. The American Society of Civil Engineers named him its engineer of the year for 1938 for his innovative work on a bridge spanning the Hudson River in upstate New York. Scientific American published a profile on Peter describing his as "the most promising engineering mind of his generation." But he wanted more-he wanted his own firm. Bratton Lauterbach had promised to bankroll Peter's company when the time was right, possibly next year. But the threat of war had put a damper on all that. If the United States was dragged into a war, all money for major public works projects would dry up overnight. Peter's new firm would go under before it had a chance to get off the ground.

He said, "How far along are you?"

"Almost two months."

Peter's face broke into a smile.

Margaret said, "You're not angry with me?"

"Of course not!"

"What about your firm and everything you said about waiting to have more children?"

He kissed her. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters."

"Ambition is a wonderful thing, but not too much ambition. You have to relax and enjoy yourself sometimes, Peter. Life isn't a dress rehearsal."

Peter stood and finished dressing. "When are you planning on telling your mother?"

"In my own good time. You remember how she was when I was pregnant with Billy. She drove me crazy. I have plenty of time to tell her."

Peter sat down beside her on the bed. "Let's make love before breakfast."

"Peter, we can't. Mother will kill us if we don't get downstairs."

He kissed her neck. "What was that you were saying about life not being a dress rehearsal?"

She closed her eyes, her head rolled back. "That's not fair. You're twisting my words."

"No, I'm not. I'm kissing you."

"Yes-"

"Margaret!" Dorothy Lauterbach's voice echoed up the stairs.

"We're coming, Mother."

"I wish," Peter muttered, and followed her downstairs to breakfast.

Walker Hardegen joined them for lunch by the swimming pool. They sat beneath an umbrella: Bratton and Dorothy, Margaret and Peter, Jane and Hardegen. A damp, fickle breeze blew from the Sound. Hardegen was Bratton Lauterbach's top lieutenant at the bank. He was tall and thick through the chest and shoulders, and most women thought he looked like Tyrone Power. He was a Harvard man, and during his senior year he had scored a touchdown in the Yale game. His football days had left him with a ruined knee and a slight limp that somehow made him even more attractive. He had a lazy New England accent and smiled easily.

A short time after Hardegen came to the bank he asked Margaret out and they dated several times. Hardegen wanted the relationship to continue but Margaret did not. She quietly terminated it but still saw Walker regularly at parties and they remained friends. Six months later she met Peter and fell in love. Hardegen was beside himself. One evening at the Copacabana, a little drunk and very jealous, he cornered Margaret and begged her to see him again. When she refused he grabbed her too roughly by the shoulder and shook her. By the icy look on her face, Margaret made it clear she would destroy his career if he did not end his childish behavior.

The incident remained their secret. Even Peter didn't know. Hardegen rose quickly through the ranks and became Bratton's most trusted senior officer. Margaret sensed there was an unspoken tension between Hardegen and Peter, a natural competitiveness. Both were young, handsome, intelligent, and successful. The situation had worsened earlier that summer, when Peter discovered Hardegen was opposed to lending the money for his engineering firm.

"I'm not one who usually goes in for Wagner, especially in the current climate," Hardegen said, pausing to sip his chilled white wine while everyone chuckled at his remark. "But you really must see Herbert Janssen in Tannhaser at the Metropolitan. It's marvelous."

"I've heard such good things about it," Dorothy said.

She loved to discuss the opera, theater, and new books and films. Hardegen, who managed to see and read everything despite an immense workload at the bank, indulged her. The arts were safe topics, unlike family matters and gossip, which Dorothy deplored.

"We did see Ethel Merman in the new Cole Porter musical," Dorothy said, as the first course, a cold shrimp salad, was served. "The title slips my mind."

"Dubarry Was a Lady," Hardegen put in. "I loved it."

Hardegen continued talking. He had gone to Forest Hills yesterday afternoon and watched Bobby Riggs win his match. He thought Riggs was a sure thing to win the Open this year. Margaret watched her mother, who was watching Hardegen. Dorothy adored Hardegen, practically treating him like a member of the family. She had made it clear that she preferred Hardegen to Peter. Hardegen was from a wealthy, conservative family in Maine, not as rich as the Lauterbachs but close enough for comfort. Peter came from a lower-middle-class Irish family and grew up on the West Side of Manhattan. He might be a brilliant engineer, but he would never be one of us. The dispute threatened to destroy Margaret's relationship with her mother. It was ended by Bratton, who would tolerate no objections to his daughter's choice of a husband. Margaret had married Peter in a storybook wedding at St. James's Episcopal Church in June 1935. Hardegen was among the six hundred invited guests. He danced with Margaret during the reception and behaved like a perfect gentleman. He even stayed to see the couple off on their two-month honeymoon in Europe. It was as if the incident at the Copa never happened.

The servants brought the main course-chilled poached salmon-and the conversation inevitably shifted to the looming war in Europe.

Bratton said, "Is there any way of stopping Hitler now, or is Poland about to become the easternmost province of the Third Reich?"

Hardegen, a lawyer as well as a shrewd investor, had been placed in charge of disentangling the bank from its German and other risky European investments. Inside the bank he was affectionately referred to as Our In-House Nazi because of his name, his perfect German, and his frequent trips to Berlin. He also maintained a network of excellent contacts in Washington and served as the bank's chief intelligence officer.

"I spoke to a friend of mine this morning-he's on Henry Stimson's staff at the War Department," Hardegen said. "When Roosevelt returned to Washington from his cruise on the Tuscaloosa, Stimson met him at Union Station and rode with him to the White House. When Roosevelt asked him about the situation in Europe, Stimson replied that the days of peace could now be counted on the fingers of both hands."

"Roosevelt returned to Washington a week ago," Margaret said.

"That's right. Do the math yourself. And I think Stimson was being optimistic. I think war could be hours away."

"But what about this communication I read about this morning in the Times?" Peter asked. Hitler had sent a message to Britain the previous night, and the Times suggested it might pave the way for a negotiated settlement of the Polish crisis.

"I think he's stalling," Hardegen said. "The Germans have sixty divisions along the Polish border waiting for the word to move."

"So what's Hitler waiting for?" Margaret asked.

"An excuse."

"Certainly the Poles aren't going to give him an excuse to invade."

"No, of course not. But that won't stop Hitler."

"What are you suggesting, Walker?" Bratton asked.

"Hitler will invent a reason to attack, a provocation that will allow him to invade without a declaration of war."

"What about the British and the French?" Peter asked. "Will they live up to their commitments to declare war on Germany if Poland is attacked?"

"I believe so."

"They didn't stop Hitler at the Rhineland, or Austria, or Czechoslovakia," Peter said.

"Yes, but Poland is different. Britain and France now realize Hitler must be dealt with."

"What about us?" Margaret asked. "Can we stay out?"

"Roosevelt insists he wants to stay on the sidelines," Bratton said, "but I don't trust him. If the whole of Europe slides into war, I doubt if we'll be able to stay out of it for long."

"And the bank?" Margaret asked.

"We're terminating all our deals with German interests," Hardegen replied. "If there is a war there will be plenty of other opportunities for investment. This war may be just what we need to finally pull the country out of the Depression."

"Ah, nothing like earning a profit from death and destruction," Jane said.

Margaret frowned at her younger sister and thought, Typical Jane. She liked to portray herself as an iconoclast, a dark, brooding intellectual, critical of her class and everything it represented. At the same time she socialized relentlessly and spent her father's money as if the well were about to run dry. At thirty, she had no means of support and no prospects for marriage.

"Oh, Jane, have you been reading Marx again?" Margaret asked playfully.

"Margaret, please," Dorothy said.

"Jane spent time in England a few years ago," Margaret continued, as though she had not heard her mother's plea for peace. "She became quite a Communist then, didn't you, Jane?"

"I'm entitled to an opinion, Margaret!" Jane snapped. "Hitler's not running this house."

"I think I'd like to become a Communist too," Margaret said. "The summer has been rather dull, with all this talk of war. Converting to communism would be a nice change of pace. The Huttons are throwing a costume party next weekend. We could go as Lenin and Stalin. After the party we'll go out to the North Fork and collectivize all the farms. It will be great fun."

Bratton, Peter, and Hardegen burst into laughter.

"Thank you, Margaret," Dorothy said sternly. "You've entertained us all quite enough for one day."

The talk of war had gone on long enough. Dorothy reached out and touched Hardegen's arm.

"Walker, I'm so sorry you couldn't come to our party last night. It was wonderful. Let me tell you all about it."

The lavish apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park had been a wedding present from Bratton Lauterbach. At seven o'clock that evening, Peter Jordan stood at the window. A thunderstorm had moved in over the city. Lightning flashed over the deep green treetops of the park. The wind drove rain against the glass. Peter had driven back into the city alone because Dorothy had insisted that Margaret attend a garden party at Edith Blakemore's. Margaret was being driven back into the city by Wiggins, the Lauterbachs' chauffeur. And now they were going to be caught in the bad weather.

Peter shoved out his arm and glanced at his watch for the fifth time in five minutes. He was supposed to meet the head of the Pennsylvania road and bridge commission at the Stork Club for dinner at seven thirty. Pennsylvania was accepting bids and design proposals for a new bridge over the Allegheny River. Peter's boss wanted him to lock up the deal tonight. He was often called on to entertain clients. He was young and smart, and his beautiful wife was the daughter of one of the most powerful bankers in the country. They were an impressive couple.

He thought, Where the hell is she?

He telephoned the Oyster Bay house and spoke to Dorothy.

"I don't know what to say to you, Peter. She left in plenty of time. Perhaps Wiggins was delayed by the weather. You know Wiggins-one sign of rain and he slows to a crawl."

"I'll give her another fifteen minutes. Then I have to leave."

Peter knew Dorothy wouldn't apologize, so he hung up before there could be an awkward moment of silence. He made himself a gin and tonic and drank it very fast while he waited. At seven-fifteen he took the elevator downstairs and stood in the lobby while the doorman went out into the rain and flagged down a taxi.

"When my wife arrives, ask her to come directly to the Stork Club."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Jordan."

The dinner went well, despite the fact that Peter left the table three times to telephone the apartment and the Oyster Bay house. By eight-thirty he was no longer annoyed, he was worried sick.

At eight forty-five p.m. Paul Delano, the headwaiter, presented himself at Peter's table.

"You have a telephone call at the bar, sir."

"Thanks, Paul."

Peter excused himself. At the bar he had to raise his voice above the clinking glasses and the din of conversation.

"Peter, it's Jane."

Peter heard her voice tremble. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid there's been an accident."

"Where are you?"

"I'm with the Nassau County Police."

"What happened?"

"A car pulled in front of them on the highway. Wiggins couldn't see it in the rain. By the time he did it was too late."

"Oh, God!"

"Wiggins is in very bad shape. The doctors aren't holding out much hope for him."

"What about Margaret, dammit!"

Lauterbachs did not cry at funerals; grieving was done in private. It was held at St. James's Episcopal Church, the same church where Peter and Margaret had been married four years earlier. President Roosevelt sent a note of condolence and expressed his disappointment that he could not attend. Most of New York society did attend. So did most of the financial world, even though the markets were in turmoil. Germany had invaded Poland, and the world was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Billy stood next to Peter during the service. He wore short pants and a little blazer and tie. As the family filed out of the church, he reached up and tugged on the hem of his aunt Jane's black dress.

"Will Mommy ever come home?"

"No, Billy, she won't. She's left us."

Edith Blakemore overheard the child's question and burst into tears.

"What a tragedy," she gasped, sobbing. "What a needless tragedy!"

Margaret was buried under brilliant skies in the family plot on Long Island. During the Reverend Pugh's final words a murmur passed through the graveside mourners, then died away.

When it was over Peter walked back to the limousines with his best friend, Shepherd Ramsey. Shepherd had introduced Peter to Margaret. Even in his somber dark suit, he looked as though he'd just stepped off the deck of his sailboat.

"What was everyone talking about?" Peter asked. "It was damned rude."

"Someone arrived late, and they'd been listening to a bulletin on the car radio," Shepherd said. "The British and French just declared war on Germany."

3

Professor Alfred Vicary vanished without explanation from University College on the third Friday of May 1940. A secretary named Lillian Walford was the last member of the staff to see him before his abrupt departure. In a rare indiscretion, she revealed to the other professors that Vicary's last telephone call had been from the new prime minister. In fact, she had spoken to Mr. Churchill personally.

"Same thing happened to Masterman and Cheney at Oxford," Tom Perrington, an Egyptologist, said as he gazed at the entry in the telephone log. "Mysterious calls, men in dark suits. I suspect our dear friend Alfred has slipped behind the veil." Then he added, sotto voce, "Into the secret Acropolis."

Perrington's languid smile did little to hide his disappointment, Miss Walford would remark later. Too bad Britain wasn't at war with the ancient Egyptians-perhaps Perrington would have been chosen too.

Vicary spent his last hours in the cramped disorderly office overlooking Gordon Square putting the final touches on an article for the Sunday Times. The current crisis might have been avoided, it suggested, if Britain and France had attacked Germany in 1939 while Hitler still was preoccupied with Poland. He knew it would be roundly criticized given the current climate; his last piece had been denounced as "Churchillian warmongering" by a publication of the pro-Nazi extreme right. Vicary secretly hoped his new article would be similarly received.

It was a glorious late-spring day, bright sunshine but deceptively chilly. Vicary, an accomplished if reluctant chess player, appreciated deception. He rose, put on a cardigan sweater, and resumed his work.

The fine weather painted a false picture. Britain was a nation under siege-defenseless, frightened, reeling in utter confusion. Plans were drawn up to evacuate the Royal Family to Canada. The government asked that Britain's other national treasure, its children, be sent into the countryside where they would be safe from the Luftwaffe's bombers.

Through the use of skilled propaganda the government had made the general public extremely aware of the threat posed by spies and Fifth Columnists. It was now reaping the consequences. Constabularies were being buried by reports of strangers, odd-looking fellows, or German-looking gentlemen. Citizens were eavesdropping on conversations in pubs, hearing what they liked, then telling the police. They reported smoke signals, winking shore lights, and parachuting spies. A rumor swept the country that German agents posed as nuns during the invasion of the Low Countries; suddenly, nuns were suspect. Most left the walled sanctuary of their convents only when absolutely necessary.

One million men too young, too old, or too feeble to get into the armed forces rushed to join the Home Guard. There were no extra rifles for the Guard so they armed themselves with whatever they could: shotguns, swords, broom handles, medieval bludgeons, Gurkha knives, even golf clubs. Those who somehow couldn't find a suitable weapon were instructed to carry pepper to toss into the eyes of marauding German soldiers.

Vicary, a noted historian, watched his nation's jittery preparations for war with a mixture of enormous pride and quiet depression. Throughout the thirties his periodic newspaper articles and lectures had warned that Hitler posed a serious threat to England and the rest of the world. But Britain, exhausted from the last war with the Germans, had been in no mood to hear about another. Now the German army was driving across France with the ease of a weekend motor outing. Soon Adolf Hitler would stand atop an empire stretching from the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean. And Britain, poorly armed and ill prepared, stood alone against him.

Vicary finished the article, set down his pencil, and read it from the beginning. Outside, the sun was setting into a sea of orange over London. The smell of the crocuses and daffodils in the gardens of Gordon Square drifted in his window. The afternoon had turned colder; the flowers were likely to set off a sneezing fit. But the breeze felt wonderful on his face and somehow made the tea taste better. He left the window open and enjoyed it.

The war-it was making him think and act differently. It was making him look more fondly upon his countrymen, whom he usually viewed with something approaching despair. He marveled at how they made jokes while filing into the shelter of the underground and at the way they sang in pubs to hide their fear. It took Vicary some time to recognize his feelings for what they were: patriotism. During his lifetime of study he had concluded it was the most destructive force on the planet. But now he felt the stirring of patriotism in his own chest and did not feel ashamed. We are good and they are evil. Our nationalism is justified.

Vicary had decided he wanted to contribute. He wanted to do something instead of watching the world through his well-guarded window.

At six o'clock Lillian Walford entered without knocking. She was tall with a shot-putter's legs and round glasses that magnified an unfaltering gaze. She began straightening papers and closing books with the quiet efficiency of a night nurse.

Nominally, Miss Walford was assigned to all the professors in the department. But she believed that God, in his infinite wisdom, entrusted each of us with one soul to look after. And if any poor soul needed looking after, it was Professor Vicary. For ten years she had overseen the details of Vicary's uncomplicated life with military precision. She made certain there was food at his house in Draycott Place in Chelsea. She saw that his shirts were delivered and contained the right amount of starch-not too much or it would irritate the soft skin of his neck. She saw to his bills and lectured him regularly about the state of his poorly managed bank account. She hired new maids with seasonal regularity because his fits of bad temper drove away the old ones. Despite the closeness of their working relationship they never referred to each other by their Christian names. She was Miss Walford and he was Professor Vicary. She preferred to be called a personal assistant and, uncharacteristically, Vicary indulged her.

Miss Walford brushed past Vicary and closed the window, casting him a scolding look. "If you don't mind, Professor Vicary, I'll be going home for the evening."

"Of course, Miss Walford."

He looked up at her. He was a fussy, bookish little man, bald on top except for a few uncontrollable strands of gray hair. His long-suffering half-moon reading glasses rested on the end of his nose. They were smudged with fingerprints because of his habit of taking them on and off whenever he was nervous. He wore a weather-beaten tweed coat and a carelessly selected tie stained with tea. His walk was something of a joke around the university; without his knowledge some of his students had learned to imitate it perfectly. A shattered knee during the last war had left him with a stiff-jointed, mechanized limp-a toy soldier no longer in good working order, Miss Walford thought. His head tended to tilt down so he could see over his reading glasses, and he seemed forever rushing somewhere he'd rather not be.

"Mr. Ashworth delivered two nice lamb chops to your house a short time ago," Miss Walford said, frowning at a messy stack of papers as though it were an unruly child. "He said it may be the last lamb he gets for some time."

"I should think so," said Vicary. "There hasn't been meat on the menu at the Connaught in weeks."

"It's getting a little absurd, don't you think, Professor Vicary? Today, the government decreed the tops of London's buses should be painted battleship gray," Miss Walford said. "They think it will make it more difficult for the Luftwaffe to bomb them."

"The Germans are ruthless, Miss Walford, but even they won't waste their time trying to bomb passenger buses."

"They've also decreed that we should not shoot carrier pigeons. Would you please explain to me how I'm supposed to tell a carrier pigeon from a real one?"

"I can't tell you how often I'm tempted to shoot pigeons," Vicary said.

"By the way, I took the liberty of ordering you some mint sauce as well," Miss Walford said. "I know how eating lamb chops without mint sauce can destroy your week."

"Thank you, Miss Walford."

"Your publisher rang to say the proofs of the new book are ready for you to examine."

"And only four weeks late. A record for Cagley. Remind me to find a new publisher, Miss Walford."

"Yes, Professor Vicary. Miss Simpson telephoned to say she'll be unable to have dinner with you tonight. Her mother has taken ill. She asked me to tell you it's nothing serious."

"Damn," Vicary muttered. He had been looking forward to the date with Alice Simpson. It was the most serious he had been about a woman in a very long time.

"Is that all?"

"No-the prime minister telephoned."

"What! Why on earth didn't you tell me?"

"You left strict instructions not to be disturbed. When I told this to Mr. Churchill he was quite understanding. He says nothing upsets him more than being interrupted when he's writing."

Vicary frowned. "From now on, Miss Walford, you have my explicit permission to interrupt me when Mr. Churchill telephones."

"Yes, Professor Vicary," she replied, undeterred in her belief that she had acted properly.

"What did the prime minister say?"

"You're expected for lunch tomorrow at Chartwell."

Vicary varied his walks home according to his mood. Sometimes he preferred to jostle along a busy shopping street or through the buzzing crowds of Soho. Other nights he left the main thoroughfares and roamed the quiet residential streets, now pausing to gaze at a splendidly lit example of Georgian architecture, now slowing to listen to the sounds of music, laughter, and clinking glass drifting from a happy cocktail party.

Tonight he floated along a quiet street through the dying twilight.

Before the war he had spent most nights doing research at the library, wandering the stacks like a ghost late into the evening. Some nights he fell asleep. Miss Walford issued instructions to the night janitors: When they found him he was to be awakened, tucked into his mackintosh, and sent home for the night.

The blackout had changed that. Each night the city plunged into pitch darkness. Native Londoners lost their way along streets they had walked for years. For Vicary, who suffered from night blindness, the blackout made navigation next to impossible. He imagined this is what it must have been like two millennia ago, when London was a clump of log huts along the swampy banks of the River Thames. Time had dissolved, the centuries retreated, man's undeniable progress brought to a halt by the threat of Goring's bombers. Each afternoon Vicary fled the college and rushed home before becoming stranded on the darkened side streets of Chelsea. Once safely inside his home he drank his statutory two glasses of burgundy and consumed the plate of chop and peas his maid left for him in a warm oven. Had they not prepared his meals he might have starved, for he still was grappling with the complexities of the modern English kitchen.

After dinner, some music, a play on the wireless, even a detective novel, a private obsession he shared with no one. Vicary liked mysteries; he liked riddles. He liked to use his powers of reasoning and deduction to solve the cases long before the author did it for him. He also liked the character studies in mysteries and often found parallels to his own work-why good people sometimes did wicked things.

Sleep was a progressive affair. It began in his favorite chair, reading lamp still burning. Then he would move to the couch. Then, usually in the hours just before dawn, he would march upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes the concentration required to remove his clothes would leave him too alert to fall back to sleep, so he would lie awake and think and wait for the gray dawn and the snicker of the old magpie that splashed about each morning in the birdbath outside in the garden.

He doubted he would sleep much tonight-not after the summons from Churchill.

It was not unusual for Churchill to ring him at the office, it was just the timing. Vicary and Churchill had been friends since the autumn of 1935, when Vicary attended a lecture delivered by Churchill in London. Churchill, confined to the wilderness of the backbench, was one of the few voices in Britain warning of the threat posed by the Nazis. That night he claimed Germany was rearming herself at a feverish pace, that Hitler intended to fight as soon as he was capable. England must rearm at once, he argued, or face enslavement by the Nazis. The audience thought Churchill had lost his mind and heckled him mercilessly. Churchill had cut short his remarks and returned to Chartwell, mortified.

Vicary stood at the back of the lecture hall that night, watching the spectacle. He too had been observing Germany carefully since Hitler's rise to power. He had quietly predicted to his colleagues that England and Germany would soon be at war, perhaps before the end of the decade. No one listened. Many people thought Hitler was a fine counterbalance to the Soviet Union and should be supported. Vicary thought that utter nonsense. Like the rest of the country he considered Churchill a bit of an adventurer, a bit too bellicose. But when it came to the Nazis, Vicary believed Churchill was dead on target.

Returning home, Vicary sat at his desk and jotted him a one-sentence note: I attended your lecture in London and agree with every word you uttered. Five days later a note from Churchill arrived at Vicary's home: My God, I am not alone after all. The great Vicary is at my side! Please do me the honor of coming to Chartwell for lunch this Sunday.

Their first meeting was a success. Vicary was immediately absorbed into the ring of academics, journalists, civil servants, and military officers who would give Churchill advice and intelligence on Germany for the rest of the decade. Winston forced Vicary to listen while he paced the ancient wooden floor of his library and explained his theories about German intentions. Sometimes Vicary disagreed, forcing Churchill to clarify his positions. Sometimes Churchill lost his temper and refused to back down. Vicary would hold his ground. Their friendship was cemented in this manner.

Now, walking through the gathering dusk, Vicary thought of Churchill's summons to Chartwell. It certainly wasn't just to have a friendly chat.

Vicary turned onto a street lined with white Georgian terraces, painted rose by the last minutes of the spring twilight. He walked slowly, as if lost, one hand clutching his leaden briefcase, the other rammed into his mackintosh pocket. An attractive woman, roughly his age, emerged from a doorway. A handsome man with a bored face followed her. Even from a distance-even with his dreadful eyesight-he could see it was Helen. He would recognize her anywhere: the erect carriage, the long neck, the disdainful walk, as if she were always about to step into something disagreeable. Vicary watched them climb into the back of the chauffeur-driven car. It drew away from the curb and headed in his direction. Turn away, you damned fool! Don't look at her! But he was incapable of heeding his own advice. As the car passed he turned his head and looked into the rear seat. She saw him-just for an instant-but it was long enough. Embarrassed, she looked quickly down. Vicary, through the rear window of the car, watched her turn and murmur something to her husband that made his head snap back with laughter.

Idiot! Bloody damned idiot!

Vicary started walking again. He looked up and watched the car vanish around a corner. He wondered where they were headed-off to another party, the theater maybe. Why can't I just let her go? It's been twenty-five years, for God's sake! And then he thought, And why is your heart beating like it was the first time you saw her face?

He walked as fast as he could until he grew tired and out of breath. He thought of anything that came into his mind-anything but her. He came to a playground and stood at the wrought-iron gate, staring through the bars at the children. They were overdressed for May, bumping around like tiny plump penguins. Any German spy lurking about would surely realize many Londoners had discounted the government's warning and kept their children with them in the city. Vicary, normally indifferent to children, stood at the gate and listened, mesmerized, thinking there was nothing quite so comforting as the sound of little ones at play.

Churchill's car was waiting for him at the station. It sped, top down, through the rolling green countryside of southeast England. The day was cool and breezy, and it seemed everything was in bloom. Vicary sat in back, one hand holding his coat closed, the other pressing his hat to his head. Wind blew over the open car like a gale over the prow of a ship. He debated whether he should ask the driver to stop and put up the top. Then the inevitable sneezing fit began-at first like sporadic sniper fire, then progressing into a full-fledged barrage. Vicary couldn't decide which hand to free to cover his mouth. He repeatedly pivoted his head and sneezed so the little puffs of moisture and germs were carried away by the wind.

The driver saw Vicary's gyrations in the mirror and became alarmed. "Would you like me to stop the car, Professor Vicary?" he asked, easing off the throttle.

The sneezing attack subsided and Vicary was actually able to enjoy the ride. He didn't care for the countryside as a rule. He was a Londoner. He liked the crowds and the noise and the traffic and tended to get disoriented in open spaces. He also hated the quiet of the nights. His mind wandered and he became convinced there were stalkers roaming in the darkness. But now he sat back in the car and marveled at England's natural beauty.

The car turned into the drive at Chartwell. Vicary's pulse quickened as he stepped from the car. As he approached the door, it opened and Churchill's man Inches stood there to greet him.

"Good morning, Professor Vicary. The prime minister has been awaiting your arrival most eagerly."

Vicary handed over his coat and his hat and stepped inside. About a dozen men and a couple of young girls were at work in the drawing room, some in uniform, some like Vicary in civilian clothes. They spoke in hushed, confessional tones, as though all the news was bad. A telephone rattled, then another. Each was answered after one ring.

"I hope you had a pleasant trip," Inches was saying.

"Marvelous," Vicary replied, lying politely.

"As usual, Mr. Churchill is running late this morning," Inches said. Then he added confidingly, "He sets an unattainable schedule, and we all spend the rest of the day trying to catch up with it."

"I understand, Inches. Where would you like me to wait?"

"Actually, the prime minister is quite eager to see you this morning. He asked that you be shown upstairs immediately upon your arrival."

"Upstairs?"

Inches knocked gently and pushed open the bathroom door. Churchill lay in his tub, a cigar in one hand, the day's second glass of whisky resting on a small table within easy reach. Inches announced Vicary and withdrew. "Vicary, my dear man," Churchill said. He put his mouth at the waterline and blew bubbles. "How good of you to come."

Vicary found the warm temperature of the bathroom oppressive. He also found it hard not to laugh at the enormous pink man splashing about in his bath like a child. He removed his tweed jacket and, reluctantly, sat down on the toilet.

"I wanted a word with you in private-that's why I've invited you here to my lair." Churchill pursed his lips. "Vicary, I must admit from the outset that I am angry with you."

Vicary stiffened.

Churchill opened his mouth to continue, then stopped himself. A perplexed, defeated look dawned over his face.

"Inches!" he bellowed.

Inches drifted in. "Yes, Mr. Churchill?"

"Inches, I believe my bathwater has dropped below one hundred four degrees. Would you check the thermometer?"

Rolling up his sleeve, Inches retrieved the thermometer. He studied it like an archaeologist examining an ancient bone fragment. "Ah, you're right, sir. The temperature of your bath has plummeted to one hundred two degrees. Shall I warm it?"

"Of course."

Inches opened the hot water tap and let it run for a moment. Churchill smiled as his bathwater attained its proper temperature. "Much better, Inches."

Churchill rolled onto his side. Water cascaded over the side of the tub, soaking the leg of Vicary's trousers.

"You were saying, Prime Minister?"

"Ah, yes, I was saying, Vicary, that I was angry with you. You never told me that in your younger days you were quite good at chess. Beat all comers at Cambridge, so I'm told."

Vicary, thoroughly confused, said, "I apologize, Prime Minister, but the subject of chess never arose during any of our conversations."

"Brilliant, ruthless, gambling-that's how people have described your play to me." Churchill paused. "You also served in the Intelligence Corps in the First War."

"I was only in the Motorcycle Unit. I was a courier, nothing more."

Churchill turned his gaze from Vicary and stared at the ceiling. "In 1250 B.C. the Lord told Moses to send agents to spy out the land of Canaan. The Lord was good enough to give Moses some advice on how to recruit his spies. Only the best and the brightest men were capable of such an important task, the Lord said, and Moses took his words to heart."

"This is true, Prime Minister," Vicary said. "But it is also true that the intelligence gathered by the spies of Moses was poorly utilized. As a result the Israelites spent another forty years wandering the desert."

Churchill smiled. "I should have learned long ago never to argue with you, Alfred. You have a nimble mind. I've always admired that."

"What is it you want me to do?"

"I want you to take a job in Military Intelligence."

"But, Prime Minister, I'm not qualified for that sort of-"

"Nobody over there knows what they're doing," Churchill said, cutting Vicary off. "Especially the professional officers."

"But what about my students? My research?"

"Your students will be in the service soon, fighting for their lives. And as for your research, it can wait." Churchill paused. "Do you know John Masterman and Christopher Cheney from Oxford?"

"Don't tell me they've been pulled in."

"Indeed-and don't expect to find a mathematician worth his salt at any of the universities," Churchill said. "They've all been snatched up and bundled off to Bletchley Park."

"What on earth are they doing there?"

"Trying to crack German ciphers."

Vicary made a brief show of thought. "I suppose I accept."

"Good." Churchill thumped his fist on the side of the tub. "You're to report first thing Monday to Brigadier Sir Basil Boothby. He is the head of the division to which you will be assigned. He is also the complete English ass. He'd thwart me if he could, but he's too stupid for that. Man could fuck up a steel ball."

"Sounds charming."

"He knows you and I are friends and therefore he will oppose you. Don't allow yourself to be bullied by him. Understood?"

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"I need someone I can trust inside that department. It's time to put the intelligence back in Military Intelligence. Besides, this will be good for you, Alfred. It's time you emerged from your dusty library and rejoined the living."

Vicary was caught off guard by Churchill's sudden intimacy. He thought of the previous evening, of his walk home, of staring into Helen's passing car.

"Yes, Prime Minister, I believe it is time. Just what will I do for Military Intelligence?"

But Churchill had vanished below the waterline.

4

Rear Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris was a small, nervous man who spoke with a slight lisp and possessed a sarcastic wit on those rare occasions when he chose to display it. White-haired, with piercing blue eyes, he was seated in the back of a staff Mercedes as it rumbled from the Rastenburg airfield to Hitler's secret bunker nine miles away. Usually, Canaris shunned uniforms and martial trappings of any kind, preferring a dark business suit instead. But since he was about to meet with Adolf Hitler and the most senior military officers in Germany, he was wearing his Kriegsmarine uniform beneath his formal greatcoat.

Known as the Old Fox by friends and detractors alike, Canaris's detached, aloof personality suited him perfectly to the ruthless world of espionage. He cared more about his two dachshunds-sleeping now on the floor at his feet-than anyone except his wife, Erika, and his daughters. When work mandated overnight travel, he booked a separate room with double beds so the dogs could sleep in comfort. When it was necessary to leave them behind in Berlin, Canaris checked in with his aides constantly to make certain the animals had eaten and had proper bowel movements. Abwehr staff who dared to speak ill of the dogs faced the very real threat of having their careers destroyed if word of their treachery ever reached Canaris's ears.

Raised in a walled villa in the Dortmund suburb of Aplerbeck as a member of the German elite so detested by Adolf Hitler, Wilhelm Canaris was the son of a chimney baron and descendant of Italians who emigrated to Germany in the sixteenth century. He spoke the languages of Germany's friends as well as her enemies-Italian, Spanish, English, French, and Russian-and regularly presided over recitals of chamber music in the salon of his stately Berlin home. In 1933 he was serving as commander of a naval depot on the Baltic Sea at Swinemunde when Hitler unexpectedly chose him to head the Abwehr, the intelligence and counterespionage service. Hitler commanded his new spymaster to create a secret service on the British model-"an order, doing its work with passion"-and Canaris formally took control of the spy agency on New Year's Day 1934, his forty-seventh birthday.

The decision would prove to be one of Hitler's worst. Since taking command of the Abwehr, Wilhelm Canaris had been engaged in an extraordinary high-wire act-providing the German General Staff with the intelligence it needed to conquer most of Europe while at the same time using the service as a tool to rid Germany of Hitler. He was a leader of the resistance movement dubbed the Black Orchestra-Schwarze Kapelle-by the Gestapo. A tightly knit group of German military officers, government officials, and civic leaders, the Black Orchestra had tried unsuccessfully to overthrow the Fuhrer and negotiate a peace settlement with the Allies. Canaris had engaged in other treasonous activities as well. In 1939, after learning of Hitler's plans to invade Poland, he warned the British in a futile attempt to spur them into action. He did the same in 1940 when Hitler announced plans to invade the Low Countries and France.

Canaris turned and peered out the window, watching as the forest swept past-dark, silent, heavily wooded, like the setting of a fairy tale by the brothers Grimm. Lost in the quiet of the snow-covered trees, he thought of the most recent attempt on the Fuhrer's life. Two months earlier, in November, a young captain named Axel von dem Bussche volunteered to assassinate Hitler during an inspection of a new Wehrmacht greatcoat. Bussche planned to conceal several grenades beneath the coat, then detonate them during the demonstration, killing himself and the Fuhrer. But one day before the assassination attempt, Allied bombers destroyed the building where the coats were housed. The demonstration was canceled, never to be rescheduled.

Canaris knew there would be more attempts-more brave Germans willing to sacrifice their own lives in order to rid Germany of Hitler-but he also knew time was running out. The Anglo-American invasion of Europe was a certainty. Roosevelt had made it clear he would accept nothing short of unconditional surrender. Germany would be destroyed, just as Canaris feared back in 1933 when Hitler's messianic ambitions became clear to him. He also realized his tenuous grip on the Abwehr was growing weaker by the day. Several members of Canaris's executive staff at Abwehr headquarters in Berlin had been arrested by the Gestapo and charged with treason. His enemies were plotting to seize control of the spy agency and put his neck in a noose of piano wire. He understood his days were numbered-that his long and dangerous high-wire act was nearing an end.

The staff car passed through a myriad of gates and checkpoints, then turned into the compound at Hitler's Wolfschanze-the Wolf's Lair. The dachshunds awakened, whimpering nervously, and jumped onto his lap. The conference was to be held in the frigid, airless map room in the underground bunker. Canaris climbed out of the car and walked morosely across the compound. At the bottom of the stairs a burly SS bodyguard stood with hand out to relieve Canaris of any weapons he might he carrying. Canaris, who shunned firearms and detested violence, shook his head and brushed past.

"In November, I issued Fuhrer Directive Number Fifty-one," Hitler began without preamble, pacing the room violently, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a dove-gray tunic, black trousers, and resplendent knee-length jackboots. On his left breast pocket he wore the Iron Cross he earned at Ypres while serving as an infantryman in the List Regiment in the First War. "Directive Number Fifty-one stated my belief that the Anglo-Saxons will attempt to invade northwest France no later than the spring, perhaps earlier. During the last two months, I have seen nothing to change my opinion."

Canaris, seated at the conference table, watched the Fuhrer prancing around the room. Hitler's pronounced stoop, caused by a kyphotic spine, seemed to have worsened. Canaris wondered if he was finally feeling the pressure. He should be. What was it Frederick the Great had said? He who defends everything defends nothing. Hitler should have heeded the advice of his spiritual guide, for Germany was in the same position she had been in during the Great War. She had conquered far more territory than she could possibly defend.

It was Hitler's own fault, the damned fool! Canaris glanced up at the map. In the East, German troops were fighting along a 2,000-kilometer front. Any hope of a military victory over the Russians had been crushed the previous July at Kursk, where the Red Army had decimated a Wehrmacht offensive and inflicted staggering casualties. Now the German army was attempting to hold a line stretching from Leningrad to the Black Sea. Along the Mediterranean, Germany was defending 3,000 kilometers of coastline. And in the West-My God! Canaris thought-6,000 kilometers of territory stretching from the Netherlands to the southern tip of the Bay of Biscay. Hitler's Festung Europa-Fortress Europe-was far-flung and vulnerable on all sides.

Canaris looked around the table at the men seated with him: Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, commander in chief of all German forces in the West; Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, commander of Army Group B in northwest France; Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and chief of the German police. A half dozen of Himmler's most loyal and ruthless men stood watch, just in case any of the top brass of the Third Reich decided to make an attempt on the Fuhrer's life.

Hitler stopped pacing. "Directive Fifty-one also stated my belief that we can no longer justify reducing our troop levels in the West in order to support our forces battling the Bolsheviks. In the East, the vastness of space will, as a last resort, permit us to give up vast amounts of territory before the enemy threatens the German homeland. Not so in the West. If the Anglo-Saxon invasion succeeds, the consequences will be disastrous. So it is here, in northwest France, where the most decisive battle of the war will be fought."

Hitler paused, allowing his words to sink in. "The invasion will be met with the full fury of our might and destroyed at the high-water mark. If that is not possible, and if the Anglo-Saxons succeed in securing a temporary beachhead, we must be prepared to rapidly redeploy our forces, stage a massive counterattack, and hurl the invaders back into the sea." Hitler crossed his arms. "But to achieve that goal, we must know the enemy's order of battle. We must know when he intends to strike. And, more important, where. Herr Generalfeldmarshal?"

Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt rose and wearily moved to the map, right hand clutching the jeweled field marshal's baton he carried at all times. Known as "the last of the German knights," Rundstedt had been dismissed and recalled to duty by Adolf Hitler more times than Canaris or even his own staff could remember. Detesting the fanatical world of the Nazis, it was Rundstedt who had derisively christened Hitler "the little Bohemian corporal." The strain of five long years of war was beginning to show on the narrow aristocratic features of his face. Gone were the stiff precise mannerisms that characterized the General Staff officers of the imperial days. Canaris knew Rundstedt drank more champagne than he should and needed large quantities of whisky to sleep at night. He regularly rose at the thoroughly unmilitary hour of ten o'clock in the morning; the staff at his headquarters at Saint-Germain-en-Laye rarely scheduled meetings before noon.

Despite his advancing years and moral decline, Rundstedt was still Germany's finest soldier-a brilliant tactician and strategic thinker-as he demonstrated to the Poles in 1939 and to the French and British in 1940. Canaris did not envy Rundstedt's situation. On paper he presided over a large and powerful force in the West: one and a half million men, including 350,000 crack Waffen-SS troops, ten panzer divisions, and two elite Fallschirmjager paratroop divisions. If deployed quickly and correctly, Rundstedt's armies were still capable of dealing the Allies a devastating defeat. But if the old Teutonic knight guessed wrong-if he deployed his forces incorrectly or made tactical blunders once the battle had begun-the Allies would establish their precious foothold on the Continent and the war in the West would be lost.

"In my opinion the equation is simple," Rundstedt began. "East of the Seine at the Pas de Calais or west of the Seine at Normandy. Each has its advantages and disadvantages."

"Go on, Herr Generalfeldmarshal."

Rundstedt continued in a dull monotone. "Calais is the strategic linchpin of the Channel coast. If the enemy secures a beachhead at Calais, he can turn to the east and be a few days' march from the Ruhrgebiet, our industrial heartland. The Americans want the war to be over by Christmas. If they succeed in a landing at Calais, they might get their wish." Rundstedt paused to allow his warning to sink in, then resumed his briefing. "There is another reason why Calais makes sense militarily-the Channel is the narrowest there. The enemy will be able to pour men and materiel into Calais four times faster than he would at Normandy or Brittany. Remember, the clock is ticking for the enemy the moment the invasion begins. He must build up troops, weapons, and supplies at an extremely rapid rate. There are three excellent deepwater ports in the Pas de Calais area"-Rundstedt tapped each with the tip of his baton, moving up the coastline-"Boulogne, Calais, and Dunkirk. The enemy needs ports. It is my belief that the first goal of the invaders will be to seize a major port and reopen it as quickly as possible, for without a major port the enemy cannot supply his troops. If he cannot supply his troops, he is dead."

"Impressive, Herr Generalfeldmarshal," Hitler said. "But why not Normandy?"

"Normandy presents the enemy with many problems. The distance across the Channel is much greater. At some points, high cliffs stand between the beaches and the mainland. The closest harbor is Cherbourg, at the tip of a heavily defended peninsula. It might be days before the enemy could take Cherbourg from us. And even if he did, he knows we would render it useless before surrendering it. But the most logical argument against a strike at Normandy, in my opinion, is its geographic location. It is too far to the west. Even if the enemy succeeds in landing at Normandy, he runs the risk of being pinned down and strategically isolated. He must fight us all the way across France before even reaching German soil."

"Your opinion, Herr Generalfeldmarshal?" Hitler snapped.

"Perhaps the Allies will engage in some trickery," Rundstedt said cautiously, fingers working over the baton. "A diversionary landing, perhaps, as you yourself have suggested, my Fuhrer. But the real strike will come here." He jabbed at the map. "At Calais."

"Admiral Canaris?" Hitler asked. "What kind of intelligence do you have to support that theory?"

Canaris, not one for formal displays at the map, remained seated. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat, where he kept a pack of cigarettes. The SS men flinched nervously. Canaris, shaking his head, slowly withdrew the cigarettes and displayed them. He laboriously lit one and blew a stream of smoke toward Himmler, knowing full well the Reichsfuhrer's pet peeve about tobacco. Himmler glared at him through the swirling pall of blue smoke, eyes betraying no emotion, the side of his face twitching nervously.

Canaris explained that the Abwehr was collecting and analyzing three types of intelligence connected with the invasion preparations: aerial photographs of enemy troops in southern England; enemy wireless communications monitored by the Funkabwehr, the agency's listening service; and reports from agents operating inside Britain.

"And what is that intelligence telling you, Herr Admiral?" Hitler snapped.

"Our initial intelligence tends to support the field marshal's assessment-that the Allies intend to strike at Calais. According to our agents there has been increased enemy activity in southeast England, directly across the Channel from the Pas de Calais. We have monitored wireless transmissions referring to a new force called the First United States Army Group. We have also been analyzing the enemy's air activity over northwest France. He is spending far more time over Calais-for the purposes of bombing and reconnaissance-than over Normandy or Brittany. I have one other piece of new information to report, my Fuhrer. One of our agents in England has a source inside the Allied high command. Last night, the agent transmitted a report. General Eisenhower has arrived in London. The Americans and British intend to keep his presence secret for the time being."

Hitler seemed impressed by the agent's report. If only Hitler knew the truth, Canaris thought: that now, just months before the most important battle of the war, the Abwehr's intelligence networks in England were very likely in tatters. Canaris blamed Hitler. During the preparations for Operation Seelowe-the aborted invasion of Britain-Canaris and his staff recklessly poured spies into England. All caution was thrown to the wind because of the desperate need for intelligence on coastal defenses and British troop positions. Agents were hastily recruited, poorly trained, and even more poorly equipped. Canaris suspected most walked straight into the arms of MI5, inflicting permanent damage on networks that took years of painstaking work to build. He could not admit that now; to do so would be to sign his own death warrant.

Adolf Hitler was pacing again. Canaris knew Hitler did not fear the coming invasion. Quite the opposite, he welcomed it. He had ten million Germans under arms and an armaments industry that, despite relentless Allied bombing and shortages of labor and raw material, continued to produce staggering amounts of weapons and supplies. He remained confident of his ability to repel the invasion and hand the Allies a cataclysmic defeat. Like Rundstedt, he believed a landing at the Pas de Calais made strategic sense, and it was there that his Atlantikwall most resembled his vision of an impregnable fortress. In effect, Hitler had tried to force the Allies to invade at Calais by ordering the launching sites for his V-1 and V-2 rockets to be placed there. Yet Hitler was also aware the British and Americans had engaged in deception throughout the war and would do so again as a prelude to the invasion of France.

"Let us reverse the roles," Hitler finally said. "If I were going to invade France from England, what would I do? Would I come by the obvious route, the route my enemy expects me to take? Would I stage a frontal assault on the most heavily defended portion of the coastline? Or would I take another route and attempt to surprise my enemy? Would I broadcast false wireless messages and send false reports through spies? Would I make misleading statements to the press? The answer to all these questions is yes. We must expect the British to engage in deception and even a major diversionary landing. As much as I would wish them to attempt a landing at Calais, we must be prepared for the possibility of an invasion at Normandy or Brittany. Therefore, our panzers must remain safely back from the coast until the enemy's intentions are clear. Then we will concentrate our armor at the main point of the attack and hurl them back into the sea."

"There is one other thing to take into account that might support your argument," Field Marshal Erwin Rommel said.

Hitler spun on his heel to face him. "Go on, Herr Generalfeldmarshal."

Rommel gestured at the large floor-to-ceiling map behind Hitler. "If you would permit a demonstration, my Fuhrer."

"Of course."

Rommel reached inside his briefcase, removed a pair of calipers, and walked to the map. In December, Hitler had ordered him to assume command of Army Group B along the Channel coast. Army Group B included the 7th Army in the Normandy area, the 15th Army between the Seine estuary and the Zuider Zee, and the Army of the Netherlands. Physically and psychologically recovered from his disastrous defeats in North Africa, the famed Desert Fox had thrown himself into his new assignment with an incredible display of energy, dashing about the French coast in his Mercedes 230 cabriolet at all hours, inspecting his coastal defenses and the disposition of his troops and armor. He had promised to turn the French coastline into a "Devil's garden"-a landscape of artillery, minefields, concrete fortifications, and barbed wire from which the enemy would never emerge. Yet privately, Rommel believed any fortification devised by man could be defeated by man.

Standing before the map, Rommel pulled open the calipers. "This represents the range of the enemy's Spitfire and Mustang fighter planes. These are the locations of major fighter bases in the south of England." He placed one end of the calipers on each of the sites and drew a series of arcs on the map. "As you can see, my Fuhrer, both Normandy and Calais are well within range of the enemy's fighters. Therefore, we must regard both areas as possible sites for the invasion."

Hitler nodded, impressed by Rommel's display. "Place yourself in the enemy's position for a moment, Herr Generalfeldmarshal. If you were attempting to invade France from England, where would you strike?"

Rommel made a brief show of thought, then said, "I must admit, my Fuhrer, that all signs point to an invasion at the Pas de Calais. But I cannot rid myself of the belief that the enemy would never attempt a frontal assault on our strongest concentration of forces. I am also tainted by the experience of Africa. The British engaged in deception before the battle of Alamein, and they will do so again before an invasion of France."

"And the Westwall, Herr Generalfeldmarshal? How is the work proceeding?"

"Much to be done, my Fuhrer. But we are making good progress."

"Will it be done before spring?"

"I believe so. But coastal fortifications alone cannot stop the enemy. We need to have our armor arrayed properly. And for that I'm afraid we need to know where they plan to strike. Nothing short of that will be of any use. If the enemy succeeds, the war may be lost."

"Nonsense," Heinrich Himmler said. "Under the Fuhrer, Germany's ultimate victory is beyond question. The beaches of France will be a graveyard for the British and the Americans."

"No," Hitler said, waving his hand, "Rommel is correct. If the enemy is able to secure a beachhead, the war is lost. But if we destroy the invasion before it ever gets started"-Hitler's head tilted back, eyes blazing-"it would take months to organize another attempt. The enemy would never try again. Roosevelt would never be re-elected. He might even end up in jail somewhere! British morale would collapse overnight. Churchill, that sick fat old man, would be destroyed! With the Americans and the British paralyzed, licking their wounds, we can take men and materiel from the West and pour them into the East. Stalin will be at our mercy. He will sue for peace. Of this, I am certain."

Hitler paused, allowing his words to sink in.

"But if the enemy is to be stopped we must know the location of the invasion," he said. "My generals think it will be Calais. I'm skeptical." He spun on his heel and glared at Canaris. "Herr Admiral, I want you to settle the argument."

"That may not be possible," Canaris said carefully.

"Is it not the task of the Abwehr to provide military intelligence?"

"Of course, my Fuhrer."

"You have spies operating inside Britain-this report about General Eisenhower's arrival in London is proof of that."

"Obviously, my Fuhrer."

"Then I suggest you get to work, Herr Admiral. I want proof of the enemy's intentions. I want you to bring me the secret of the invasion-and quickly. Let me assure you, you don't have much time."

Hitler paled visibly and seemed suddenly exhausted.

"Now, unless you gentlemen have any more bad news for me, I'm going to get a few hours of sleep. It's been a very long night."

They all rose as Hitler walked up the stairs.

5

He is standing before the doors, open to the warm night, holding a bottle of icy white wine. He pours himself another glass without offering to refill hers. She is lying on the bed, smoking, listening to his voice. Listening to the warm wind stirring the trees off the veranda. Heat lightning is flickering silently over the valley. His valley, as he always says. My fucking valley. And if the mother-fucking Loyalists ever try to take it from me I'll cut off their fucking balls and feed them to the dogs.

"Who taught you to shoot like that?" he demands. They went hunting in the morning and she has taken four pheasant to his one.

"My father."

"You shoot better than me."

"So I've noticed."

The lightning is quietly in the room again and she can see Emilio clearly for a few seconds. He is thirty years older, yet she thinks he is beautiful. His hair is gray-blond, the sun has made his face the color of oiled saddle leather. His nose is long and sharp, an ax blade. She wanted to be kissed by his lips but he wanted her very fast and rough the first time, and Emilio always gets what he fucking wants, darling.

"You speak English very well," he informs her, as if she is hearing this for the first time. "Your accent is perfect. I could never lose mine, no matter how hard I tried."

"My mother was English."

"Where is she now?"

"She died a long time ago."

"You have French as well?"

"Yes," she answers.

"Italian?"

"Yes. I have Italian."

"Your Spanish is not so good, though."

"Good enough," she says.

He is fingering his cock while he speaks. He loves it like he loves his money and his land. He speaks of it as though it is one of his finest horses. In bed it is like a third person.

"You lie with Maria by the stream; then at night you let me come to your bed and fuck you," he says.

"That's one way of putting it," she answers. "Do you want me to stop with Maria?"

"You make her happy," he says, as if happiness is grounds for anything.

"She makes me happy."

"I've never known a woman like you before." He sticks a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lights it, hands cupped against the evening breeze. "You fuck me and my daughter on the same day without blinking an eye."

"I don't believe in forming attachments."

He laughs his quiet, controlled laugh.

"That's wonderful," he says, and laughs quietly again. "You don't believe in forming attachments. That's marvelous. I pity the poor bastard who makes the mistake of falling in love with you."

"So do I."

"Do you have any feelings?"

"No, not really."

"Do you love anyone or anything?"

"I love my father," she says. "And I love lying by the stream with Maria."

Maria is the only woman she has ever met whose beauty is a threat to her. She neutralizes that threat by pillaging Maria's beauty for herself. Her mane of brown curly hair. Her flawless olive skin. The perfect breasts that are like summer pears in her mouth. The lips that are the softest things she has ever touched. "Come to Spain for the summer and live with me at my family's estancia," Maria says one rainy afternoon in Paris, where they are both studying at the Sorbonne. Father will be disappointed, but the idea of spending the summer in Germany watching the fucking Nazis parading around the streets holds nothing for her. She did not know she would be walking straight into a civil war instead.

But the war does not intrude on Emilio's insolent enclave of paradise in the foothills of the Pyrenees. It is the most wonderful summer of her life. In the morning the three of them hunt or run the dogs, and in the afternoon she and Maria ride up to the stream, swim in the icy deep pools, sun themselves on the warm rocks. Maria likes it best when they are outside. She likes the sensation of the sun on her breasts and Anna between her legs. "My father wants you too, you know," Maria announces one afternoon as they lie in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. "You can have him. Just don't fall in love with him. Everyone is in love with him."

Emilio is talking again.

"When you return to Paris next month there's someone I want you to meet. Will you do that for me?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On who it is."

"He will contact you. When I tell him about you he will be very interested."

"I'm not going to sleep with him."

"He won't be interested in sleeping with you. He's a family man. Like me," he adds, and laughs his laugh again.

"What's his name?"

"Names are not important to him."

"Tell me his name."

"I'm not sure which name he's using these days."

"What does your friend do?"

"He deals in information."

He comes back to the bed. Their conversation has aroused him. His cock is hard and he wants her again right away. He is pushing her legs apart and trying to find his way inside her. She takes him in her hands to help him, then digs her nails into him.

"Ahhhh! Anna, my God! Not so hard!"

"Tell me his name."

"It's against the rules-I can't!"

"Tell me," she says, and squeezes him harder.

"Vogel," he mutters. "His name is Kurt Vogel. Jesus Christ."

The Abwehr had two primary kinds of spies operating against Britain. The S-Chain consisted of agents who entered the country, settled under assumed identities, and engaged in espionage. R-Chain agents were mainly third-country nationals who periodically entered Britain legally, collected intelligence, and reported back to their masters in Berlin. There was a third, a smaller and highly secretive network of spies, referred to as the V-Chain-a handful of exceptionally trained sleeper agents who burrowed deeply into English society and waited, sometimes for years, to be activated. It was named for its creator and single control officer, Kurt Vogel.

Vogel's modest empire consisted of two rooms on the fourth floor of Abwehr headquarters, located in a pair of dour gray stone town houses at 74-76 Tirpitz Ufer. The windows overlooked the Tiergarten, the 630-acre park in the heart of Berlin. Once it had been a spectacular view, but months of Allied bombing had left panzer-sized craters in the bridle paths and reduced most of the chestnut and lime trees to blackened stumps. Much of Vogel's office was consumed by a row of locked steel cabinets and a heavy safe. He suspected the clerks in the Abwehr's central registry had been turned by the Gestapo and he refused to keep files there. His only assistant-a decorated Wehrmacht lieutenant named Werner Ulbricht who was maimed fighting the Russians-worked in the anteroom. He kept a pair of Lugers in the top drawer of his desk and had been instructed by Vogel to shoot anyone who entered without permission. Ulbricht had nightmares about mistakenly killing Wilhelm Canaris.

Vogel officially held the rank of captain in the Kriegsmarine, but it was only a formality designed to give him the rank necessary to operate in certain quarters. Like his mentor Canaris, he rarely wore a uniform. His wardrobe varied little: an undertaker's charcoal suit, a white shirt, a dark tie. He had iron-gray hair that looked as though he had cut it himself and the intense gaze of a coffeehouse revolutionary. His voice was like a rusty hinge; after nearly a decade of clandestine conversations in cafes, hotel rooms, and bugged offices, it rarely rose above a chapel murmur. Ulbricht, deaf in one ear, constantly struggled to hear him.

Vogel's passion for anonymity ran to the absurd. His office contained only one personal item, a portrait of his wife, Gertrude, and his twin girls. He banished them to Gertrude's mother's home in Bavaria when the bombing started and saw them infrequently. Whenever he left the office, even for a few moments, he removed the portrait from the desktop and locked it away in a drawer. Even his identification badge was a riddle. It contained no picture-he had refused to be photographed for years-and the name was false. He kept a small flat near the office, reached by a pleasant walk along the leafy banks of the Landwehr Canal, for those rare nights when he permitted himself to escape. His landlady believed he was a college professor with a lot of girlfriends.

Even inside the Abwehr little else was known of him.

Kurt Vogel was born in Dusseldorf. His father was the principal of a local school, his mother a part-time music teacher who gave up a promising career as a concert pianist to marry and raise a family. Vogel earned a doctorate of law from Leipzig University, where he studied civil and political law under two of the greatest legal minds in Germany, Herman Heller and Leo Rosenberg. He was a brilliant student-the top of his class-and his professors quietly predicted Vogel would one day sit on the Reichsgericht, Germany's supreme court.

Hitler changed all that. Hitler believed in the rule of men, not the rule of law. Within months of taking power he turned Germany's entire judicial system upside down. Fuhrergewalt-Fuhrer power-became the absolute law of the land, and Hitler's every maniacal whim was immediately translated into codes and regulations. Vogel remembered some of the ridiculous maxims coined by the architects of Hitler's legal overhaul of Germany: Law is what is useful to the German people! Law must be interpreted through healthy folk emotions! When the normal judiciary stood in their way the Nazis established their own courts-Volksgerichtshof, the People's Courts. In Vogel's opinion the darkest day in the history of German jurisprudence came in October 1933, when ten thousand lawyers stood on the steps of the Reichsgericht in Leipzig, arms raised in a Nazi salute, and swore to "follow the course of the Fuhrer to the end of our days." Vogel had been among them. That night he went home to the small flat he shared with Gertrude, burned his law books in the stove, and drank himself sick.

Several months later, in the winter of 1934, he was approached by a small dour man with a pair of dachshunds-Wilhelm Canaris, the new head of the Abwehr. Canaris asked Vogel if he would be willing to go to work for him. Vogel accepted on one condition-that he not be forced to join the Nazi party-and the following week he vanished into the world of German military intelligence. Officially, he served as Canaris's in-house legal counsel. Unofficially, he was given the task of preparing for the war with Britain that Canaris thought was inevitable.

Now Vogel sat at his desk, hunched over a memo, knuckles pressed to his temples. He struggled to concentrate over the noise: the rattle of the old lift as it struggled up and down the well just beyond his wall, the splatter of freezing rain against the windows, the cacophony of car horns that accompanied the Berlin evening rush. He moved his hands from his temples to his ears and pressed until there was silence.

The memo had been given to him by Canaris earlier that day, a few hours after the Old Fox returned from a meeting with Hitler at Rastenburg. Canaris thought it looked promising, and Vogel had to agree. "Hitler wants results, Kurt," Canaris had said, sitting behind his battered antique desk like an impervious old don, eyes wandering the overflowing bookshelves as though searching for a treasured but long-lost volume. "He wants proof it's Calais or Normandy. Perhaps it's time we brought your little nest of spies into the game."

Vogel had read it once quickly. Now he read it more carefully a second time. Actually it was more than promising, it was perfect-the opportunity he had been waiting for. When he finished he looked up and murmured Ulbricht's name several times as if he were speaking directly into his ear. Finally, receiving no reply, he rose and walked into the anteroom. Ulbricht was cleaning his Lugers.

"Werner, I've been calling you for five minutes," Vogel said, his voice nearly inaudible.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't hear you."

"I want to see Muller first thing in the morning. Make me an appointment."

"Yes, sir."

"And Werner, do something about your damned ears. I was shouting at the top of my lungs in there."

The bombers came at midnight as Vogel dozed fitfully in his office on a stiff camp bed. He swung his legs to the floor, rose, and walked to the window as the aircraft droned overhead. Berlin shuddered as the first fires erupted in the districts of Pankow and Weissensee. Vogel wondered how much more punishment the city could absorb. Vast sections of the capital of the thousand-year Reich had already been reduced to rubble. Many of the city's most famous neighborhoods resembled canyons of crushed brick and twisted steel. The lime trees of the Unter den Linden had been scorched, as had many of the once-glittering shops and banks lining the broad boulevard. The renowned clock at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church had been stilled at seven thirty since November, when Allied bombers laid waste to one thousand acres of Berlin on a single night.

The memo ran around in his head while he watched the night raid.

ABWEHR/BERLIN XFU0465848261

TO: CANARIS

FROM: MULLER

DATE: 2 NOV 43

ON 21 OCTOBER CAPTAIN DIETRICH OF ASCUNCION STATION DEBRIEFED AMERICAN ASSET SCORPIO IN PANAMA CITY. AS YOU KNOW SCORPIO IS ONE OF OUR MOST IMPORTANT AGENTS IN AMERICA. HE IS HIGHLY PLACED IN NEW YORK FINANCIAL CIRCLES AND IS WELL CONNECTED IN WASHINGTON. HE IS PERSONAL FRIENDS WITH MANY SENIOR OFFICERS AT BOTH THE DEPARTMENTS OF WAR AND STATE. HE HAS MET PERSONALLY WITH ROOSEVELT. THROUGHOUT THE WAR HIS INFORMATION HAS BEEN TIMELY AND HIGHLY ACCURATE. I REMIND YOU ABOUT THE INTELLIGENCE HE SUPPLIED TO US ON THE AMERICAN ARMS SHIPMENTS TO THE BRITISH.

ACCORDING TO SCORPIO, A RENOWNED AMERICAN ENGINEER NAMED PETER JORDAN WAS RECRUITED BY THE AMERICAN NAVY LAST MONTH AND DISPATCHED TO LONDON TO WORK ON A HIGHLY SECRET CONSTRUCTION PROJECT. JORDAN HAS NO PREVIOUS MILITARY EXPERIENCE. SCORPIO KNOWS JORDAN PERSONALLY AND SPOKE WITH HIM BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR LONDON. SCORPIO SAYS THE PROJECT IS DEFINITELY CONNECTED TO THE ENEMY'S PLAN TO INVADE FRANCE.

JORDAN IS RESPECTED FOR HIS WORK ON SEVERAL MAJOR AMERICAN BRIDGE PROJECTS. JORDAN IS A WIDOWER. HIS WIFE, THE DAUGHTER OF AMERICAN BANKER BRATTON LAUTERBACH, WAS KILLED IN AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT IN AUGUST 1939. SCORPIO BELIEVES JORDAN IS HIGHLY VULNERABLE TO APPROACH BY A FEMALE ASSET.

JORDAN IS NOW LIVING ALONE IN THE SECTION OF LONDON KNOWN AS KENSINGTON. SCORPIO HAS PROVIDED THE ADDRESS OF THE HOUSE AS WELL AS THE COMBINATION OF THE SAFE INSIDE THE STUDY.

SUGGEST ACTION.

Vogel noticed a wedge of light from the doorway and heard the scrape of Ulbricht's wooden leg against the floor. The bombing disturbed Ulbricht in a way he could not put into words and Vogel could never understand. Vogel removed his key ring from the desk drawer and went to one of the steel cabinets. The file was inside an unmarked black folder. Returning to his desk, he poured himself a large cognac and opened the cover. It was all there: the photographs, the background material, the performance reports. He didn't need to read it. He had written it himself and, like the subject, he had the curse of a flawless memory.

He turned a few more pages and found the notes he had made after their first meeting in Paris. Beneath it was a copy of the cable sent to him by the man who discovered her-Emilio Romero, a wealthy Spanish landowner, a Fascist, a talent spotter for the Abwehr.

SHE IS EVERYTHING YOU ARE LOOKING FOR. I'D LIKE TO KEEP HER FOR MYSELF BUT BECAUSE I AM A FRIEND I WILL GIVE HER TO YOU. AT A REASONABLE PRICE OF COURSE.

The room felt suddenly bone-chillingly cold. He lay down on his army cot and covered himself in a blanket.

Hitler wants results, Kurt. Perhaps it's time we brought your little nest of spies into the game.

Sometimes he imagined leaving her in place until it was all over, then finding some way of getting her out. But she was perfect for it, of course. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, and her English and her knowledge of British society were faultless. He turned and looked at the photograph of Gertrude and the children. To think that he fantasized giving them up for her. He had been such a fool. He switched off the light. The air raid had ended. The night was a symphony of sirens. He tried to sleep but it was no good. She was under his skin again.

Poor Vogel. I've made a shambles of your heart, haven't I?

The eyes in the photograph of his family were boring into him. It was obscene, looking at them, remembering her. He stood up, went to his desk, and locked the picture away in his drawer.

"For God's sake, Kurt!" Muller exclaimed as Vogel entered his office the following morning. "Who's cutting your hair these days, my friend? Let me give you the name of the woman who does mine. Maybe she can help you."

Vogel, exhausted from a night of little sleep, sat down and silently regarded the figure before him. Paul Muller was in charge of the Abwehr's intelligence networks in the United States. He was short, tubby, and impeccably dressed in a shiny French suit. His thin hair was oiled and combed straight back from his cherubic face. His tiny mouth was sumptuous and red, like that of a child who has just eaten cherry candy.

"Imagine this, the great Kurt Vogel, here in my office," Muller said through a smirk. "To what do I owe this privilege?"

Vogel was used to the professional jealousy of the other senior staff. Because of the special status of his V-Chain network, he was given more money and assets than the other case officers. He was also allowed to poke his nose into their affairs, which made him extremely unpopular within the agency.

Vogel removed his copy of Muller's memo from the breast pocket of his jacket and waved it in front of him. "Tell me about Scorpio," he said.

"So the Old Man finally circulated my note. Look at the date on the goddamned thing. I gave it to him two months ago. It's been sitting on his desk gathering dust. That information is like gold. But it goes into the Fox's Lair and never comes out again." Muller paused, lit a cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "You know, Kurt, sometimes I wonder whose side Canaris is on."

The remark was not unusual these days. Since the arrest of several members of the Abwehr's executive staff on charges of treason, morale at Tirpitz Ufer had sunk to a new low. Vogel sensed that Germany's military intelligence agency was dangerously adrift. He had heard rumors that Canaris had fallen out of favor with Hitler. There were even rumors among the staff that Himmler was plotting to bring down Canaris and place the Abwehr under the control of the SS.

"Tell me about Scorpio," Vogel repeated.

"I had dinner with him at the home of an American diplomat." Muller threw back his round head and stared at the ceiling. "Before the war, 1937 I believe it was. I'll check his file to make certain. The fellow's German was better than mine. Thought the Nazis were a wonderful bunch of fellows doing great things for Germany. Only thing he hated worse than the Jews was the Bolsheviks. It was like an audition. I recruited him myself the next day. Easiest snare of my career."

"What's his background?"

Muller smiled. "Investment banking. Ivy League, good contacts in industry, friends with half of Washington. His information on war production has been excellent."

Vogel was folding the memo and putting it back in his pocket. "His name?"

"Come on, Kurt. He's one of my best agents."

"I want his name."

"This place is like a sieve, you know that. I tell you, everybody knows."

"I want a copy of his file on my desk in an hour," Vogel said, his underpowered voice barely a whisper. "And I want everything you have on the engineer."

"You can have the information on Jordan."

"I want it all, and if I have to go to Canaris I'll do it."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Kurt. You're not going to go running to Uncle Willy, are you?"

Vogel stood and buttoned his jacket. "I want his name and I want his file." He turned and walked out of the office.

"Kurt, come back here," Muller called out. "Let's work this out. Jesus Christ."

"If you want to talk, I'll be in the Old Man's office," Vogel said as he walked down the narrow hallway.

"All right, you win." Muller's doughy hands were digging in a cabinet. "Here's the fucking file. You don't have to run to Uncle Willy again. Jesus Christ, you're worse than the fucking Nazis sometimes."

Vogel spent the rest of the morning reading about Peter Jordan. When he finished he removed a pair of files from one of his cabinets, returned to his desk, and read them carefully.

The first file contained information on an Irishman who had worked as a spy for a short time but was cut loose because his information was poor. Vogel had taken possession of his dossier and placed him on the V-Chain payroll. Vogel was not concerned with the bad reviews the spy had received in the past-he was not looking for a spy. There were other qualities about the agent Vogel found attractive. He worked a small farm on an isolated stretch of Britain's Norfolk coast. It was a perfect safe house-close enough to London to make the journey by train in three hours, far enough away so the place wasn't crawling with MI5 officers.

The second file contained the dossier of a former Wehrmacht paratrooper who had been barred from jumping because of a head wound. The man had all the qualities Vogel liked: perfect English, an eye for detail, a cool intelligence. Ulbricht had found him at an Abwehr wireless listening post in northern France. Vogel placed him on the V-Chain payroll and tucked him away for the right assignment.

Vogel pushed the files aside and drafted two messages. He added the ciphers to be used, the frequencies at which the messages were to be sent, and the transmission schedule. Then he looked up and called for Ulbricht.

"Yes, Herr Captain," Ulbricht said. He entered the office, limping heavily on his wooden leg. Vogel looked at Ulbricht an instant before speaking, wondering if the man was up to the demands of an operation like the one he was about to launch. Ulbricht was twenty-seven years old but looked at least forty. His close-cropped black hair was flecked with gray. Pain lines ran like tributaries from the edge of his one good eye. The second eye had been lost in the explosion; the empty socket was hidden behind a neat black patch. A Knight's Cross dangled at his throat. The top button of Ulbricht's tunic was undone because the exertion of the most simple movements caused him to become overheated and perspire. In all the time they had worked together, Vogel had never once heard Ulbricht complain.

"I want you to go to Hamburg tomorrow night." He handed Ulbricht the transcripts of the messages. "Stand over the radio operator while he sends these. Make certain there are no mistakes. See that the acknowledgments from the agents are in order. If there is anything out of the ordinary I want to know about it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Before you go, I want you to track down Horst Neumann."

"He's in Berlin, I believe."

"Where is he staying?"

"I'm not certain," Ulbricht said, "but I believe there is a woman involved."

"There usually is." Vogel walked to the window and looked out. "Contact the staff at the Dahlem farm. Tell them to expect us tonight. I want you to join us there when you return from Hamburg tomorrow. Tell them we'll be there for a week. We have a lot to go over. And tell them to rig the jump platform in the barn. It's been a long time since Neumann jumped from an airplane. He'll need practice."

"Yes, sir."

Ulbricht went out, leaving Vogel alone in the office. He stood at the window for a long time, thinking it through once more. The most closely guarded secret of the war and he planned to steal it with a woman, a cripple, a grounded paratrooper, and a British traitor. Quite a team you've assembled, Kurt, old man. If his own ass wasn't on the line he might have found the whole thing funny. Instead, he just stood there like a statue, watching snow drifting silently over Berlin, worrying himself to death.

6

The Imperial Security Intelligence Service-better known by its military intelligence designation, MI5-was head-quartered in a small cramped office building at 58 St. James's Street. MI5's task was counterintelligence. In the lexicon of espionage, counterintelligence means protecting one's secrets-and, when necessary, catching spies. For much of its forty-year existence, the Security Service toiled in the shadow of its more glamorous cousin, the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6. Such internecine rivalries did not matter much to Professor Alfred Vicary. It was MI5 that Vicary joined in May 1940 and where, on a dismal rainy evening five days after Hitler's secret conference at Rastenburg, he could still be found.

The top floor was the preserve of the senior staff: the director-general's office, his secretariat, the assistant directors and division heads. Brigadier Sir Basil Boothby's office was there, hidden behind a pair of intimidating oaken doors. A pair of lights glared down from over the doors, a red one signifying the room was too insecure to permit access, a green one meaning enter at your own risk. Vicary, as always, hesitated before pressing the buzzer.

Vicary had received his summons at nine o'clock, while he was locking away his things in his gunmetal gray cabinet and tidying up his hutch, as he referred to his small office. When MI5 exploded in size at the beginning of the war, space became a precious commodity. Vicary was relegated to a windowless cell the size of a broom closet, with worn bureaucratic green carpet and a sturdy little headmasterly desk. Vicary's partner, a former Metropolitan Police officer named Harry Dalton, sat with the other junior men in a common area at the center of the floor. The place had a newsroom rowdiness about it, and Vicary ventured there only when absolutely necessary.

Officially, Vicary held the rank of a major in the Intelligence Corps, though military rank meant next to nothing inside the department. Much of the staff routinely referred to him as Professor, and he had worn his uniform just twice. Vicary's manner of dress had changed, though. He had forsaken the tweedy clothes of the university, dressing instead in sharp gray suits he purchased before clothing, like almost everything else, was rationed. Occasionally, he bumped into an acquaintance or old colleague from University College. Despite incessant warnings by the government about the dangers of loose talk, they inevitably asked Vicary exactly what he was doing. He usually smiled wearily, shrugged his shoulders, and gave the prescribed response: he was working in a very dull department of the War Office.

Sometimes it was dull, but not often. Churchill had been right-it had been time for him to rejoin the living. His arrival at MI5 in May 1940 had been his rebirth. He thrived on the atmosphere of wartime intelligence: the long hours, the crises, the dismal tea in the canteen. He had even taken up cigarette smoking again, which he had sworn off his last year at Cambridge. He loved being an actor in the theater of the real. He seriously doubted whether he could be satisfied again in the sanctuary of academia.

Surely the hours and the tension were taking a toll on him, but he had never felt better. He could work longer and needed less sleep. When he did go to bed he dropped off immediately. Like the other officers, he spent many nights at MI5 headquarters, sleeping on a small camp bed he kept folded next to his desk.

Only the ill treatment of his half-moon reading glasses survived Vicary's catharsis-still smudged and battered and something of a joke inside the department. In moments of distress, he still absently beat his pockets for them and thrust them onto his face for comfort.

Which he did now, as the light over Boothby's office suddenly shone green. Vicary pressed the buzzer with the reflective air of a man about to attend the funeral of a boyhood friend. It purred softly, the door opened, and Vicary stepped inside.

Boothby's office was big and long, with fine paintings, a gas fireplace, rich Persian carpets, and a magnificent view through the tall windows. Sir Basil kept Vicary waiting the statutory ten minutes before finally entering the room through a second doorway connecting his office to the director-general's secretariat.

Brigadier Sir Basil Boothby had classic English size and scale-tall, angular, still showing signs of the physical agility that made him a star athlete at school. It was there in the easy way his strong hand held his drink, in the square shoulders and thick neck, in the narrow hips where his trousers, waistcoat, and jacket converged in graceful perfection. He had the sturdy good looks that a certain type of younger woman finds attractive. His gray-blond hair and eyebrows were so lush the department wits referred to him as the bottle brush from the fifth floor.

Officially, little was known about Boothby's career-only that he had served in Britain's intelligence and security organizations his entire professional life. Vicary thought the gossip and rumor surrounding a man often said more about him than his resume. Speculation about Boothby had spawned a veritable cottage industry within the department. According to the rumor mill, Boothby ran a spy network during the First War that penetrated the German General Staff. In Delhi, he personally executed an Indian accused of murdering a British citizen. In Ireland, he beat a man to death with his pistol butt for refusing to divulge the location of an arms cache. He was an expert in the martial arts and used his spare time to keep his skills sharp. He was ambidextrous and could write, smoke, drink his gin and bitters, or break your neck with either hand. His tennis was so good he could have won Wimbledon. Deceptive was the word used most often to describe his play, and his ability to switch hands midmatch still confounded his opponents. His sex life was much talked about and much debated: a relentless womanizer who had bedded half the typists and the girls from Registry; a homosexual.

In Vicary's opinion, Sir Basil Boothby symbolized all that was wrong with British Intelligence between the wars-the wellborn Englishman educated at Eton and Oxford who believed the secret exercise of power was as much a birthright as his family fortune and his centuries-old Hampshire mansion: rigid, lazy, orthodox, a cop in handmade shoes and a Savile Row suit. Boothby had been eclipsed intellectually by the new recruits drawn into MI5 at the outset of the war: the top brains from the universities, the best barristers from London's most prestigious houses. Now he was in an unenviable position-supervising men who were more clever than he and at the same time attempting to claim bureaucratic credit for their accomplishments.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Alfred. A meeting in the Underground War Rooms with Churchill, the director-general, Menzies, and Ismay. I'm afraid we've got a bit of a crisis on our hands. I'm drinking brandy and soda. What will you have?"

"Whisky," Vicary said, watching Boothby. Despite the fact that he was one of the most senior officers in MI5, Boothby still took a childlike pride in dropping the names of the powerful people with whom he met on a regular basis. The group of men who had just gathered in the prime minister's underground fortress were the elite of Britain's wartime intelligence community: the director-general of MI5, Sir David Petrie; the director-general of MI6, Sir Stewart Menzies; and Churchill's personal chief of staff, General Sir Hastings Ismay. Boothby pressed a button on his desk and asked his secretary to bring Vicary's drink. He walked to the window, lifted the blackout shade, and looked out.

"I hope to God they don't come again tonight, bloody Luftwaffe. It was different in 1940. It was all new and exciting in a strange kind of way. Carrying your steel helmet beneath your arm to dinner. Running for the shelters. Fire-watching from the rooftops. But I don't think London could endure another winter of a full-fledged blitz. Everyone's too tired. Tired and hungry and ill-clothed and sick of the petty humiliations that go with being at war. I'm not sure how much more this nation can take."

Boothby's secretary brought Vicary's drink. It was on the center of a silver tray, resting atop a white paper napkin. Boothby had a fetish about water marks on the furniture of his office. He sat down in a chair next to Vicary and crossed his long legs, pointing the polished toe of his shoe at Vicary's kneecap like a loaded gun.

"We have a new assignment for you, Alfred. And in order for you to truly understand its importance, we've decided it's necessary to lift the veil a little higher and show you a little more than you've been allowed to see previously. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"I believe so, Sir Basil."

"You're the historian. Know much about Sun-tzu?"

"Fourth century B.C. China is not exactly my field, Sir Basil, but I've read him."

"Know what Sun-tzu wrote about military deception?"

"Sun-tzu wrote that all warfare is based on deception. He preached that every battle is won or lost before it's ever fought. His advice was simple: Attack the enemy where he is unprepared and appear where you are not expected. He said it was vital to undermine the enemy, subvert and corrupt him, sow internal discord among his leaders, and destroy him without fighting him."

"Very good," Boothby said, visibly impressed. "Unfortunately, we'll never be able to destroy Hitler without fighting him. And in order to have any chance at all of beating him in a fight, we have to deceive him first. We have to heed those wise words of Sun-tzu. We need to appear where we are not expected."

Boothby rose, went to his desk, and brought back a secure briefcase. It was made of metal-the color of polished silver-with a set of handcuffs attached to the grip.

"You're about to be BIGOT-ed, Alfred," Boothby said, opening the briefcase.

"I beg your pardon?"

"BIGOT-ed-it's a supersecret classification developed specifically to cover the invasion. It takes its name from a stamp we placed on documents carried by British officers to Gibraltar for the invasion of North Africa. TO GIB-to Gibraltar. We just reversed the characters. TO GIB became BIGOT."

"I see," Vicary said. Four years after coming to MI5, Vicary still found many of the code names and security classifications ridiculous.

"BIGOT now refers to anyone who is privy to the most important secret of Overlord, the time and place of the invasion of France. If you know the secret, you're a BIGOT. Any documents pertaining to the invasion get a BIGOT stamp."

Boothby unlocked the briefcase, reached inside, and withdrew a beige folder. He laid it carefully on the coffee table. Vicary looked at the cover, then at Boothby. It was emblazoned with the sword and shield of SHAEF-the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force-and stamped BIGOT. Below were the words Plan Bodyguard, followed by Boothby's name and a distribution number.

"It is a very small fraternity you're about to enter-just a few hundred officers," Boothby resumed. "And there are those of us who think even that's too many. I should also tell you that your personal and professional background has been thoroughly investigated. No stone has been left unturned, as they say. I'm happy to report you're not a known member of any Fascist or Communist organization, you don't drink to excess, at least not in public, you don't put yourself about with loose women, and you aren't a homosexual or any other type of sexual deviant."

"That's good to know."

"I should also tell you that you are subject to further security checks and surveillance at any time. None of us are immune from it, not even General Eisenhower."

"I understand, Sir Basil."

"Good. First, I'd like to ask you a question or two. Your work has dealt with the invasion. Your caseload has given you a window on some of the preparations. Where do you think we're planning to strike?"

"Based on the little I know, I'd say we're going to hit them at Normandy."

"And how would you assess the chances of success for a landing at Normandy?"

"Amphibious assaults by their nature are the most complicated of all military operations," Vicary said. "Especially when they involve the English Channel. Julius Caesar and William the Conqueror managed to pull it off. Napoleon and the Spaniards failed. Hitler finally gave up on the idea in 1940. I'd say the chances of a successful invasion are no better than fifty-fifty."

Boothby snorted. "If that, Alfred, if that." He stood and paced the length of his office. "We've managed to pull off three successful amphibious operations so far: North Africa, Sicily, and Salerno. But none of those landings involved a fortified coast."

Boothby stopped pacing and looked at Vicary.

"You're right, by the way. It is Normandy. And it's scheduled for the late spring. And if we are going to have even your fifty-fifty chance of success, Hitler and his generals need to think we're going to attack somewhere else." Boothby sat down and picked up the folder. "That's why we've developed this-it's called Plan Bodyguard. Being a historian, you'll have a special appreciation for Bodyguard. It is a ruse de guerre of a scale and ambition never before attempted."

The code name meant nothing to Vicary. Boothby sailed on with his indoctrination lecture.

"Bodyguard used to be called Plan Jael, by the way. It was renamed out of respect for a rather eloquent remark the prime minister made to Stalin at Teheran. Churchill said, 'In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.' The Old Man has a certain way with words, I'll grant him that. Bodyguard is not an operation in itself. It is the code name for all the strategic cover and deception operations, to be carried out on a global scale, designed to mislead Hitler and the General Staff about our intentions on D-Day."

Boothby picked up the folder and flipped violently through it.

"The most important component of Bodyguard is Operation Fortitude. It is the goal of Fortitude to delay the Wehrmacht's reaction to the invasion for as long as possible by leading them to believe that other parts of northwestern Europe are also under the direct threat of attack-specifically Norway and the Pas de Calais.

"The Norwegian deception is code-named Fortitude North. Its goal is to force Hitler to leave twenty-seven divisions in Scandinavia by convincing him we're planning to attack Norway, before or even after D-Day."

Boothby turned to another page in the folder and drew a deep breath.

"Fortitude South is the more critical and, I daresay, more dangerous of the two deceptions. The goal of Fortitude South is to slowly convince Hitler, his generals, and his intelligence officers that we intend to stage not one invasion of France but two. The first strike, according to Fortitude South, is to be a diversionary strike across the Baie de la Seine at Normandy. The second strike, the main thrust, will take place three days later across the Strait of Dover at Calais. From Calais, our invading armies can turn directly to the east and be inside Germany within a few weeks." Boothby paused to sip his brandy and soda and allow his words to sink in. "Fortitude says that the goal of the first assault is to force Rommel and von Rundstedt to hurl their crack panzer units of the German Fifteenth Army at Normandy, thus leaving Calais undefended when the real invasion occurs. Obviously, we want the opposite to take place. We want the panzers of the Fifteenth Army to remain at Calais, waiting for the real invasion, paralyzed by indecision, while we come ashore at Normandy."

"Brilliant in its simplicity."

"Quite," Boothby said. "But with one glaring weakness. We don't have enough men to pull it off. By late spring there will be just thirty-seven divisions in Britain-American, British, and Canadian-barely enough to stage one strike against France, let alone two. If Fortitude is to have any chance of succeeding, we must convince Hitler and his generals that we have the divisions necessary to stage two invasions."

"How in heaven's name are we going to do that?"

"Why, we're simply going to create an army of a million men. Conjure it up, I'm afraid, completely out of thin air."

Vicary sipped his drink, staring at Boothby, disbelief on his face. "You can't be serious."

"Yes, we can, Alfred-we're deadly serious. In order for the invasion to have that one-in-two chance of succeeding, we have to convince Hitler, Rommel, and von Rundstedt that we have a massive and powerful force coiled behind the cliffs of Dover, waiting to lash out across the Channel at Calais. We won't, of course. But by the time we're finished, the Germans are going to believe they're confronted with a living, breathing force of some thirty divisions. If they don't believe this force exists-if we fail and they see through our deception-there is a very good chance the return to Europe, as Churchill calls it, will end in a bloody and cataclysmic failure."

"Does this phantom army have a name?" Vicary asked.

"Indeed-the First United States Army Group. FUSAG for short. It even has a commander, Patton himself. The Germans believe General Patton is our finest battlefield commander and think we would be fools to launch any invasion without his playing a major role. At his disposal Patton will have some one million men, made up primarily of nine divisions from the U.S. Third Army and two divisions of the Canadian First Army. FUSAG even has its own London headquarters in Bryanston Square."

Vicary blinked rapidly, trying to digest the extraordinary information he was being given. Imagine creating an army of a million men, completely out of thin air. Boothby was right-it was a ruse de guerre of unimaginable proportions. It made the Trojan horse of Odysseus look like a college escapade.

"Hitler's no fool, and neither are his generals," he said. "They're well schooled in the lessons of Clausewitz, and Clausewitz offered valuable advice about wartime intelligence: 'A great part of the information obtained in war is contradictory, a still greater part is false, and by far the greatest part is doubtful.' The Germans aren't going to believe there's an army of a million men camped in the Kent countryside just because we tell them it's so."

Boothby smiled, reached into the briefcase, and withdrew another folder. "True, Alfred. Which is why we came up with this: Quicksilver. The goal of Quicksilver is to put flesh and bones on our little army of ghosts. In the coming weeks, as the phantom forces of FUSAG begin arriving in Britain, we're going to flood the airwaves with wireless traffic-some of it in codes we know the Germans have already broken, some of it en clair. Everything has to be perfect, just the way it would be if we were putting a real army of a million men in Kent. Quartermasters complaining about the lack of tents. Mess units griping about shortages of food and silver. Radio chatter during exercises. Between now and the invasion, we're going to bombard their listening posts in northern France with close to a million messages. Some of those messages will provide the Germans a small clue, a tidbit of information about the location of the forces or their disposition. Obviously, we want the Germans to find those clues and latch onto them."

"A million wireless messages? How is that possible?"

"The U.S. 3103 Signals Service Battalion. They're bringing quite a crew with them-Broadway actors, radio stars, voice specialists. Men who can imitate the accent of a Jew from Brooklyn one minute and the bloody awful drawl of a Texas farmhand the next. They'll record the false messages in a studio on sixteen-inch records and then broadcast them from trucks circulating through the Kent countryside."

"Unbelievable," Vicary said, beneath his breath.

"Yes, quite. And that's only a small part of it. Quicksilver accounts for what the Germans will hear over the air. But we also have to take into account what they'll see from the air. We have to make it look as though a massive army is staging a slow and methodical buildup in the southeast corner of the country. Enough tents to house a force of a million men, a massive armada of aircraft, tanks, landing craft. We're going to widen the roads. We're even going to build a bloody oil depot in Dover."

Vicary said, "But surely, Sir Basil, we don't have enough planes, tanks, and landing craft to waste on a deception."

"Of course not. We're going to build models out of plywood and canvas. From the ground, they'll look like what they are-crude, hastily prepared fakes. But from the air, through the lens of a Luftwaffe surveillance camera, they'll look like the real thing."

"How do we know the surveillance planes will get through?"

Boothby smiled broadly, finished the rest of his drink, and deliberately lit a cigarette. "Now you're getting it, Alfred. We know they're going to get through because we're going to let them through. Not all of them, of course. They'd smell a rat if we did that. RAF and American aircraft will constantly patrol the skies over our phantom FUSAG, and they'll chase away most of the intruders. But some of them-only those flying over thirty thousand feet, I should add-will be allowed through. If all goes according to the script, Hitler's aerial surveillance analysts will tell him the same thing his eavesdroppers in northern France are telling him: that there is a massive Allied force poised off the Pas de Calais."

Vicary was shaking his head. "Wireless signals, aerial photographs-two of the ways the Germans can gather intelligence about our intentions. The third way, of course, is through spies."

But were there really any spies left? In September 1939, the day war broke out, MI5 and Scotland Yard engaged in a massive roundup. All suspected spies were jailed, turned into double agents, or hanged. In May 1940, when Vicary arrived, MI5 was in the process of capturing the new spies Canaris was sending to England to collect intelligence for the coming invasion. Those new spies suffered the same fate as the previous wave.

Spycatcher was not an appropriate word to describe what Vicary did at MI5. He was technically a Double Cross officer. It was his job to make sure the Abwehr believed its spies were still in place, still gathering intelligence, and still sending it back to their case officers in Berlin. Keeping the agents alive in the minds of the Abwehr had obvious advantages. MI5 had been able to manipulate the Germans from the very outset of the war by controlling the flow of intelligence from the British Isles. It also kept the Abwehr from sending new agents into Britain because Canaris and his control officers believed most of their spies were still on the job.

"Exactly, Alfred. Hitler's third source of intelligence about the invasion is his spies. Canaris's spies, I should say. And we know how effective they are. The German agents under our control will make a vital contribution to Bodyguard by confirming for Hitler much of what he can see from the skies and hear over the airwaves. In fact, one of our doubles, Tate, has already been brought into the game."

Tate earned his code name because of his uncanny resemblance to the popular music hall comedian Harry Tate. His real name was Wulf Schmidt, an Abwehr agent who parachuted from a Heinkel 111 into the Cambridgeshire countryside on the night of September 19, 1940. Vicary, though not assigned to the Tate case, knew the basics. Having spent the night in the open, he buried his parachute and wireless and walked into a nearby village. His first stop was Wilfred Searle's barbershop, where he purchased a pocket watch to replace the wristwatch he smashed leaping from the Heinkel. Next he purchased a copy of the Times from Mrs. Field, the newsagent, washed his swollen ankle at the village pump, and took his breakfast in a small cafe. Finally, at ten a.m., he was taken into custody by Private Tom Cousins of the local Home Guard. The following day he was driven to MI5's interrogation facility in Ham Common, Surrey, and there, after thirteen days of questioning, Tate agreed to work as a double agent and send Double Cross messages back to Hamburg over his wireless.

"Eisenhower is in London, by the way. Only a select few on our side have been made aware of that. Canaris knows it, however. And now, so does Hitler. In fact, the Germans knew Eisenhower was here before he settled down for his first night at Hayes Lodge. They knew he was here because Tate told them he was here. It was perfect, of course-a seemingly important yet completely harmless piece of intelligence. Now the Abwehr believes Tate has an important and credible source inside SHAEF. That source will be critical as the invasion draws nearer. Tate will be given an important lie to transmit. And with any luck, the Abwehr will believe that too.

"In the coming weeks, Canaris's spies will begin to see signs of a massive buildup of men and materiel in southeast England. They'll see American and Canadian troops. They'll see encampments and staging areas. They'll hear horror stories from the British public about the terrible inconvenience of having so many soldiers crammed in so small a place. They'll see General Patton careening through the villages of East Anglia with his polished boots and ivory-handled revolver. The good ones will even learn the names of this army's top commanders, and they'll send those names back to Berlin. Your own Double Cross network will play a critical role."

Boothby paused, crushed out his cigarette, and immediately lit another.

"But you're shaking your head, Alfred. I suspect you've spotted the Achilles' heel of the entire deception plan."

Vicary's lips curled into a careful smile. Knowing Vicary's love of Greek history and lore, Boothby realized he would automatically think of the Trojan War when being briefed on the details of Operation Fortitude. "May I?" Vicary said, gesturing toward Boothby's packet of Players cigarettes. "I'm afraid I've left mine downstairs."

"Of course," Boothby said, handing Vicary the cigarettes and holding up the flame of his lighter for him.

"Achilles died after being struck by an arrow in his one vulnerable spot-his heel," Vicary said. "The Achilles' heel of Fortitude is the fact that it can be undone by one genuine report from a source Hitler trusts. It requires total manipulation of every source of information Hitler and his intelligence officers possess. Each one of them has to be poisoned in order for Fortitude to work. Hitler must be enmeshed in a total web of lies. If one thread of truth slips through, the entire scheme could unravel." Vicary, pausing for a pull on his Players, could not resist making the historical parallel. "When Achilles was undone, his armor was awarded to Odysseus. Our armor, I'm afraid, will be awarded to Hitler."

Boothby picked up his empty glass and rolled it consciously in the palm of his large hand.

"That's the danger inherent to all military deception, isn't it, Alfred? It almost always points the way to the truth. General Morgan, the invasion planner, said it best. All it would take is one decent German spy to walk the south coast of England from Cornwall to Kent. If that happened, the entire thing would come crashing down, and with it the hopes of Europe. Which is why we've been holed up with the prime minister all evening and why you're here now."

Boothby stood and slowly paced the length of his office.

"As of this moment, we are acting under the reasonable certitude that we have in fact poisoned all Hitler's sources of intelligence. We are also acting under the reasonable certitude that we have accounted for all of Canaris's spies in Britain and that none of them are operating outside our control. We wouldn't be embarking on a stratagem such as Fortitude if that weren't the case. I use the words reasonable certitude because there is no way we can ever be truly certain of that fact. Two hundred and sixty spies-all arrested, turned, or hanged."

Boothby drifted from the weak lamplight and vanished into the dark corner of his office.

"Last week, Hitler staged a conference in Rastenburg. All the heavies were there: Rommel, von Rundstedt, Canaris, and Himmler. The subject was the invasion-specifically, the time and place of the invasion. Hitler put a gun to Canaris's head-figuratively, not literally-and ordered him to learn the truth or face some rather distressing consequences. Canaris in turn gave the job to a man on his staff named Vogel-Kurt Vogel. Until now, we've always believed Kurt Vogel was Canaris's personal legal adviser. Obviously, we were wrong. Your job is to make sure Kurt Vogel doesn't learn the truth. I haven't had a chance to read his file. I suspect Registry may have something on him."

"Right," Vicary said.

Boothby had drifted back into the dim light. He pulled a mild frown, as though he had overheard something unpleasant in the next room, then fell into a long speculative silence.

"Alfred, I want to be perfectly honest with you about something from the outset of this case. The prime minister insisted you be given the assignment over the strenuous objections of the director-general and myself."

Vicary held Boothby's gaze for a moment; then, embarrassed by the remark, he looked away and allowed his eyes to wander. Over the walls. Over the dozens of photographs of Sir Basil with famous people. Over the deep burnished-oak paneling. Over the old oar that hung on one wall, strangely out of place in the formal setting. Perhaps it was a reminder of happier, less complicated times, Vicary thought. A glassy river at sunrise. Oxford versus Cambridge. Train rides home on chilly autumn afternoons.

"Allow me to explain that remark, Alfred. You have done marvelous work. Your Becker network has been a stunning success. But both the director general and I feel a more senior man might be better suited to this case."

"I see," Vicary said. A more senior man was code for a career officer, not one of the new recruits Boothby so mistrusted.

"But obviously," Boothby resumed, "we were unable to convince the prime minister that you were not the best man for the case. So it's yours. Give me regular updates on your progress. And good luck, Alfred. I suspect you'll need it."

7

By January 1944 the weather had resumed its rightful place as the primary obsession of the British public. The summer and autumn had been unusually dry and hot; the winter, when it came, unusually cold. Freezing fogs rose from the river, stalked Westminster and Belgravia, hovered like gunsmoke over the ruins of Battersea and Southwark. The blitz was little more than a distant memory. The children had returned. They filled the toy shops and department stores, mothers in tow, exchanging unwanted Christmas presents for more desirable items. On New Year's Eve, large crowds had jammed Piccadilly Circus. It all might have seemed normal if not for the fact that the celebration took place in the gloom of the blackout. But now the Luftwaffe, after a long and welcome absence, had returned to the skies over London.

At eight p.m., Catherine Blake hurried across Westminster Bridge. Fires burned across the East End and the docks; tracer fire and searchlights crisscrossed the night sky. Catherine could hear the dull thump-thump of antiaircraft fire from the batteries in Hyde Park and along the Embankment and taste the acrid bite of smoke from the fires. She knew she was in for a long, busy night.

She turned into Lambeth Palace Road and was struck by an absurd thought-she was absolutely famished. Food was in shorter supply than ever. The dry autumn and bitter cold winter had combined to eliminate almost all green vegetables from the country. Potatoes and brussels sprouts were delicacies. Only turnips and swedes were in plentiful supply. She thought, If I have to eat one more turnip, I'll shoot myself. Still, she suspected things were much worse in Berlin.

A policeman-a short chubby man who looked too old to get into the army-stood watch at the entrance to Lambeth Palace Road. He raised his hand and, shouting over the wail of the air raid sirens, asked for her identification.

As always, Catherine's heart seemed to miss a beat.

She handed over a badge identifying her as a member of the Women's Voluntary Service. The policeman glanced at it, then at her face. She touched the policeman's shoulder and leaned close to his ear so that when she spoke he could feel her breath on his ear. It was a technique she had used to neutralize men for years.

Catherine said, "I'm a volunteer nurse at St. Thomas Hospital."

The police officer looked up. By the expression on his face Catherine could see he was no longer a threat to her. He was grinning stupidly, gazing at her as if he had just fallen in love. The reaction was nothing new to Catherine. She was strikingly beautiful, and she had used her looks as a weapon her entire life.

The policeman handed back her identification.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"Bad. Be careful and keep your head down."

London's need for ambulances had far exceeded the supply. The authorities grabbed anything suitable they could lay their hands on-delivery vans, milk trucks-anything with four wheels, a motor, and room in the back for the injured and a medic. Catherine noticed a red cross painted over the faded name of a popular local bakery on one of the ambulances pouring into the hospital's emergency entrance.

She walked quickly now, trailing the ambulance, and stepped inside. It was bedlam. The emergency room was filled with wounded. They seemed to be everywhere-the floors, the hallways, even the nurses' station. A few cried. Others sat staring, too dazed to comprehend what had happened to them. Dozens of patients had yet to see a doctor or a nurse. More were arriving by the minute.

Catherine felt a hand on her shoulder.

"No time for standing round, Miss Blake."

Catherine turned and saw the stern face of Enid Pritt. Before the war, Enid had been a kind, sometimes confused woman accustomed to dealing with cases of influenza and, occasionally, the loser of a Saturday-night knife fight outside a pub. All that changed with the war. Now she stood ramrod straight and spoke in a clear parade-ground voice, never using more words than needed to make a point. She ran one of the busiest emergency wards in London without a hitch. A year earlier her husband of twenty-eight years had been killed in the blitz. Enid Pritt did not grieve-that could wait until after the Germans were beaten.

"Don't let them see what you're thinking, Miss Blake," Enid Pritt said briskly. "Frightens them even more. Off with your coat and get to work. At least a hundred and fifty wounded in this hospital alone, and the morgue's filling fast. Been told to expect more."

"I haven't seen it this bad since September 1940."

"That's why they need you. Now get to work, young lady, quick as you like."

Enid Pritt moved off across the emergency room like a commander crossing a battlefield. Catherine watched her take a young nurse to task over a sloppy dressing. Enid Pritt didn't play favorites-she was hard on nurses and volunteers alike. Catherine hung up her coat and started making her way down a hallway filled with injured. She began with a small girl clutching a scorched stuffed bear.

"Where does it hurt, little one?"

"My arm."

Catherine rolled up the sleeve of the girl's sweater, revealing an arm that was obviously broken. The child was in shock and unaware of the pain. Catherine kept her talking, trying to keep her mind off the wound.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Ellen."

"Where do you live?"

"Stepney, but our house isn't there anymore." Her voice was calm, emotionless.

"Where are your parents? Are they here with you?"

"The fireman told me they're with God now."

Catherine said nothing, just held the girl's hand. "The doctor will be along to see you soon. Just sit still and try not to move your arm. All right, Ellen?"

"Yes," she said. "You're very pretty."

Catherine smiled. "Thank you. You know what?"

"What?"

"So are you."

Catherine moved up the hallway. An older man with a contusion across the top of his bald head looked up as Catherine examined the wound. "I'm just fine, young lady. There are a lot of people hurt worse than myself. See to them first."

She smoothed his rumpled ring of gray hair and did as he asked. It was a quality she had seen in the English time and time again. Berlin was foolish to resume the blitz. She wished she were allowed to tell them.

Catherine moved down the hall, tending to the wounded, listening to the stories while she worked.

"I was in the kitchen pourin' meself a cup of bleedin' tea when boom! A thousand-pound bomb lands right on me bleedin' doorstep. Next thing I know I'm lyin' flat on me back in what used to be me garden, lookin' up at a pile of rubble that used to be me bleedin' house."

"Watch your mouth, George, there's children present."

"That's not so bad, mate. House across the street from mine took a direct hit. Family of four, good people, wiped out."

A bomb landed nearby; the hospital shook.

A nun, badly injured, blessed herself and began leading the others in the Lord's Prayer.

"It's gonna take more than prayer to knock the Luftwaffe out of the sky tonight, Sister."

"Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…"

"I lost my wife to the blitz in 1940. I think I may have lost my only daughter tonight."

"… on Earth as it is in Heaven…"

"What a war, Sister, what a bleedin' war."

"… as we forgive those who trespass against us…"

"You know, Mervin, I get the impression Hitler doesn't much like us."

"I've noticed that too."

The emergency room erupted with laughter.

Ten minutes later, when the nun decided that prayer had run its course, the inevitable singing began.

"Roll out the barrel…"

Catherine shook her head.

"We'll have a barrel of fun…"

But after a moment she found herself singing along with the others.

It was eight o'clock the next morning when she let herself into her flat. The morning's post had arrived. Her landlady, Mrs. Hodges, always slipped it beneath the door. Catherine bent down, picked up the letters, and immediately tossed three envelopes into the trash bin in the kitchen. She did not need to read them because she had written them herself and mailed them from different locations around London. Under normal circumstances, Catherine would receive no personal letters, for she had no friends and no family in Britain. But it would be odd for a young, attractive, educated woman never to correspond with anyone-and Mrs. Hodges was a bit of a snoop-so Catherine engaged in an elaborate ruse to make sure she had a steady stream of personal mail.

She went into the bathroom and opened the taps above the tub. The pressure was low, the water trickled from the spigot in a thread, but at least it was hot today. Water was in short supply because of the dry summer and fall, and the government was threatening to ration that too. Filling the tub would take several minutes.

Catherine Blake had been in no position to make demands at the time of her recruitment, but she made one anyway-enough money to live comfortably. She had been raised in large town houses and sprawling country estates-both her parents had come from the upper classes-and spending the war in some hovel of a boardinghouse sharing a bathroom with six other people was out of the question. Her cover was a war widow from a middle-class family of respectable means and her flat matched it to perfection, a modest yet comfortable set of rooms in a Victorian terrace in Earl's Court.

The sitting room was cozy and modestly furnished, though a stranger might have been struck by the complete lack of anything personal. There were no photographs and no mementos. There was a separate bedroom with a comfortable double bed, a kitchen with all modern appliances, and her own bathroom with a large tub.

The flat had other qualities that a normal Englishwoman living alone might not demand. It was on the top floor, where her AFU suitcase radio could receive transmissions from Hamburg with little interference, and the Victorian bay window in the sitting room provided a clear view of the street below.

She went into the kitchen and placed a kettle of water on the stove. The volunteer work was time-consuming and exhausting but it was essential for her cover. Everyone was doing something to help. It wouldn't look right for a healthy young woman with no family to be doing nothing for the war effort. Signing up to work at a munitions factory was risky-her cover might not withstand much of a background check-and joining the Wrens was out of the question. The Women's Voluntary Service was the perfect compromise. They were desperate for people. When Catherine went to sign up in September 1940 she was put to work that same night. She cared for the injured at St. Thomas Hospital and handed out books and biscuits in the underground during the night raids. By all appearances she was the model young Englishwoman doing her bit.

Sometimes she had to laugh.

The kettle screamed. She returned to the kitchen and made tea. Like all Londoners she had become addicted to tea and cigarettes. It seemed the whole country was living on tannin and tobacco, and Catherine was no exception. She had used up her ration of powdered milk and sugar so she drank the tea plain. At moments like these she longed for the strong bitter coffee of home and a piece of sweet Berlin cake.

She finished the first cup and poured a second. She wanted to take a bath, crawl into bed, and sleep round the clock, but she had work to do, and she needed to stay awake. She would have been home an hour earlier if she moved around London like a normal woman. She would have taken the underground straight across London to Earl's Court. But Catherine did not move around London like a normal woman. She had taken a train, then a bus, then a taxi, then another bus. She had stepped off the bus early and walked the final quarter mile to her flat, constantly checking to make certain she was not being followed. When she finally arrived home she was soaked by the rain but confident she was alone. After more than five years, some agents might be tempted to become complacent. Catherine would never become complacent. It was one of the reasons she survived when others had been arrested and hanged.

She went into the bathroom and undressed in front of the mirror. She was tall and fit; years of heavy riding and hunting had made her much stronger than most women and many men. She was broad through the front of her shoulders, and her arms were smooth and firm as a statue's. Her breasts were rounded and heavy and perfectly shaped, her stomach hard and flat. Like almost everyone she was thinner than before the war. She undid the clasp that held her hair in a discreet nurse's bun, and it tumbled about her neck and shoulders, framing her face. Her eyes were ice blue-the color of a Prussian lake, her father had always said-and the cheekbones were wide and prominent, more German than English. The nose was long and graceful, the mouth generous, with a pair of sensuous lips.

She thought, All in all, you're still a very attractive woman, Catherine Blake.

She climbed into the tub, feeling suddenly very alone. Vogel had warned her about the loneliness. She never imagined it could be so intense. Sometimes it was actually worse than the fear. She thought it would be better if she were completely alone-isolated on a deserted island or mountaintop-than to be surrounded by people she could not touch.

She had not allowed herself a lover since the boy in Holland. She missed men and she missed sex but she could live without both. Desire, like all her emotions, was something she could turn on and off like a light switch. Besides, having a man was difficult in her line of work. Men tended to become obsessive about her. The last thing she needed now was a lovesick man looking into her past.

Catherine finished her bath and got out. She combed her wet hair quickly and put on her robe. She went to the kitchen and opened the door to the pantry. The shelves were barren. The suitcase radio was on the top shelf. She brought it down and took it into the sitting room near the window, where the reception was the best. She opened the lid and switched it on.

There was another reason why she had never been caught: Catherine stayed off the airwaves. Each week she switched on the radio for a period of ten minutes. If Berlin had orders for her they would send them then.

For five years there had been nothing, only the hiss of the atmosphere.

She had communicated with Berlin just once, the night after she murdered the woman in Suffolk and assumed her new identity. Beatrice Pymm. She thought of the woman now, feeling no remorse. Catherine was a soldier, and during wartime soldiers were forced to kill. Besides, the murder was not gratuitous. It was absolutely necessary.

There were two ways for an agent to slip into Britain: clandestinely, by parachute or small boat, or openly, by passenger ship or airplane. Each method had drawbacks. Attempting to slip into the country undetected from the air or by small boat was risky. The agent might be spotted or injured in the jump; simply learning how to parachute would have added months to Catherine's already interminable training. The second method-coming by legal means-carried its own danger. The agent would have to go through passport control. A record would be made of the date and port of entry. When war broke out, MI5 would surely rely on those records to help track down spies. If a foreigner entered the country and never left, MI5 could safely assume that person was a German agent. Vogel devised a solution: enter Britain safely by boat, then erase the record of the entry by erasing the actual person. Simple, except for one thing-it required a body. Beatrice Pymm, in death, became Christa Kunst. MI5 had never discovered Catherine because they had never looked. Christa Kunst's entry and departure were both accounted for. They had no hint Catherine ever existed.

Catherine poured another cup of tea, slipped on her earphones, and waited.

She nearly spilled it on herself when, five minutes later, the radio crackled into life.

The operator in Hamburg tapped out a burst of code.

German keyers had the reputation of being the most precise in the world. Also the fastest. Catherine struggled to keep up. When the Hamburg operator finished, she asked him to repeat the message.

He did, more slowly.

Catherine acknowledged and signed off.

It took several minutes to find her codebook and several more to decode the message. When she was finished she stared at it in disbelief.

EXECUTE RENDEZVOUS ALPHA.

Kurt Vogel finally wanted her to meet with another agent.

8

Rain drifted across the Norfolk coast as Sean Dogherty, done in by five pints of watery ale, tried to mount his bicycle outside the Hampton Arms. He succeeded on his third attempt and set out for home. Dogherty, cycling steadily, barely noticed the village: a dreary place really-a cluster of cottages along the single street, the village store, the Hampton Arms pub. The sign hadn't been painted since 1938; paint, like nearly everything else, was rationed. St. John's Church rose over the east end. The graveyard lay at the edge of the village. Dogherty unconsciously blessed himself as he passed the lych-gate and pedaled over the wooden bridge spanning the sea creek. A moment later the village disappeared behind him.

Darkness gathered; Dogherty struggled to keep the bicycle upright on the pitted lane. He was a small man of fifty, green eyes set too deeply in his skull, a derelict gray beard. His nose, twisted and off center, had been broken more times than he cared to remember, once during a brief career as a welterweight in Dublin and a few more times in drunken street fights. He wore an oilskin coat and a woolen cap. The cold air clawed at the exposed skin of his face: North Sea air, knife edged, scented with the arctic ice fields and Norwegian fjords it had passed before assaulting the Norfolk coast.

The curtain of rain parted and the terrain came into view-broad emerald fields, endless gray mudflats, salt marshes deep with reeds and grass. To his left a wide, seemingly endless beach ran down to the water's edge. To his right, in the middle distance, green hills blended into low cloud.

A pair of Brent geese-down from Siberia for the winter-rose out of the marsh and banked out over the water, wings pumping gently. A perfect habitat for many species of birds, the Norfolk coast once was a popular tourist destination. But the war had made bird-watching all but impossible. Much of Norfolk was a restricted military zone, and petrol rationing left few citizens with the means to travel to such an isolated corner of the country. If they had, they would have found it difficult to find their way around. In the spring of 1940, with invasion fever running high, the government took down all the road signs.

Sean Dogherty, more than other residents of the Norfolk coast, took special note of such things. In 1940 he had been recruited to spy for the Abwehr and given the code name Emerald.

The cottage appeared in the distance, smoke lifting gently from the chimney only to be sliced off by the wind and carried across the broad meadow. It was a smallholding on rented land but it provided an adequate living: a small flock of sheep that gave them wool and meat, chickens, a small plot of root vegetables that fetched good prices these days at the market. Dogherty even owned a dilapidated old van and transported goods from neighboring farms to the market in King's Lynn. As a result he was given an agricultural ration of petrol, more than the standard civilian ration.

He turned into the drive, climbed off his bicycle, and pushed it along the pitted pathway toward the barn. Overhead, he heard the drone of Lancaster bombers setting out from their Norfolk bases. He remembered a time when the planes came from the other direction-the Luftwaffe's heavy Heinkels, sweeping in over the North Sea toward the industrial centers of Birmingham and Manchester. Now the Allies had established supremacy of the skies, and the Heinkels rarely ventured over Norfolk.

He looked up and saw the curtains of the kitchen window part slightly, saw the blurry image of Mary's face through the rain-streaked glass. Not tonight, Mary, he thought, eyes consciously averted. Please, not again tonight.

It had not been difficult for the Abwehr to convince Sean Dogherty to betray England and go to work for Nazi Germany. In 1921, his older brother, Daniel, was arrested and hanged by the British for leading an Irish Republican Army flying column.

Inside the barn Dogherty unlocked a tool cabinet and took down his Abwehr-issue suitcase transceiver, his cipher pad, a notebook, and a pencil. He switched on the radio and smoked a cigarette while he waited. His instructions were simple: turn on the radio once each week and stand by for any instructions from Hamburg. It had been more than three years since the Abwehr had asked him to do anything. Still, he dutifully switched on his radio at the instructed time and waited for ten minutes.

With two minutes remaining in the window, Dogherty placed the cipher pad and the notebook back in the cabinet. With one minute left, he reached for the power switch. He was about to shut off the radio when it suddenly came to life. He lunged for his pencil and wrote furiously until the radio went silent. He quickly tapped out an acknowledgment and signed off.

It took Dogherty several minutes to decode the message.

When he finished, he couldn't believe his eyes.

EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE.

The Germans wanted him to take in an agent.

It had been fifteen minutes since Mary Dogherty, standing in the kitchen window, had seen her husband enter the barn. She wondered what was taking so long. Sean's dinner would go cold if he didn't come in soon. She wiped her hands on her apron and carried a mug of steaming tea to the front window. The rain was coming down harder now, wind whipping across the coastline from the North Sea.

She thought, Terrible night to be out in it, Sean Dogherty.

She cupped her hands around the chipped enamel mug, letting the rising steam warm her face. She knew what he was doing in the barn-he was on the radio with the Germans.

Spying for the Nazis, Mary had to admit, had rejuvenated Sean. In the spring of 1940 he reconnoitered huge sections of the Norfolk countryside. Mary watched in amazement as he seemed to come back to life under the assignment, pedaling several miles a day, looking for signs of military activity, taking photographs of coastal defenses. The information was passed to an Abwehr contact in London, who in turn passed it on to Berlin. Sean thought it was all very dangerous and loved every moment of it.

Mary hated it. She feared Sean would be caught. Everyone was on the lookout for spies; it was a national obsession. One slip, one mistake, and Sean would be arrested. The 1940 Treachery Act prescribed a single sentence for spying: execution. Mary had read about spies in the newspapers-the hangings at Wandsworth and Pentonville-and each one sent ice through her veins. One day, she feared, she would read of Sean's execution.

The rain fell harder now, and the wind beat so furiously against the side of the sturdy little cottage Mary feared it might come down. She thought of living alone on the broken-down old farm; it would be miserable. Shuddering, she drew away from the window and moved closer to the fire.

Perhaps it would have been different if she had been able to give him children. She pushed it from her mind; she had punished herself needlessly too long. No use dredging up things she could do nothing about. Sean was what he was and there was nothing she could do to change him.

Sean, Mary thought, what on earth has become of you?

The pounding at the door startled Mary, causing her to spill tea on her apron. It was not like Sean to lock himself out. She set down the mug in the window and hurried to the door, prepared to yell at him for leaving the cottage without his key. Instead, when she pulled back the door, she saw the figure of Jenny Colville, a girl who lived on the other side of the village. She stood in the rain, a shiny oilskin coat hanging over bony shoulders. She wore no hat and her shoulder-length hair lay plastered against her head, framing an awkward face that one day might be very pretty.

Mary could tell she had been crying.

"What happened, Jenny? Did your father hit you again? Has he been drinking?"

Jenny nodded and burst into tears.

"Come in out of the rain," Mary said. "You'll catch your death of cold out there on a night like this."

As Jenny came inside Mary looked in the front garden for her bicycle. It wasn't there; she had walked all the way from the Colville cottage, more than a mile away.

Mary closed the door. "Take off those clothes. They're soaking wet. I'll get you a robe to wear until they're dry."

Mary disappeared into the bedroom. Jenny did as she was told. Exhausted, she shed the oilskin, letting it fall from her shoulders onto the floor. Then she pulled off her heavy wool sweater and dropped it on the floor next to the oilskin.

Mary came back with the robe. "Get the rest of those clothes off, young lady," she said, gentle mock anger in her voice.

"But what about Sean?"

Mary lied. "He's out fixing a break in one of his blessed fences."

"In this weather?" Jenny sang in her heavy Norfolk accent, regaining some of her usual good humor. Mary marveled at her resiliency. "Is he daft, Mary?"

"I've always known you were a perceptive child. Now, off with the rest of those wet clothes."

Jenny stripped off her trousers and her undershirt. She tended to dress like a boy, even more so than other country girls. Her skin was milky white and covered with goose bumps. She would be very lucky not to come down with a heavy cold. Mary helped Jenny into the robe and wrapped it around her tightly.

"Now, isn't that better?"

"Yes, thank you, Mary." Jenny started to cry again. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Mary drew Jenny to her. "You'll never be without me, Jenny. I promise."

Jenny climbed into an old chair next to the fire and covered herself with a musty blanket. She pulled her feet up under herself, and after a moment the shivering stopped and she felt warm and safe. Mary was at the stove, singing softly to herself.

After a few moments the stew bubbled, filling the cottage with a wonderful smell. Jenny closed her eyes, her tired mind leaping from one pleasant sensation to the next-the warm smell of the lamb stew, the heat of the fire, the thrilling sweetness of Mary's voice. The wind and rain lashed at the window next to her head. The storm made Jenny feel wonderful to be safely inside a peaceful home. She wished her life were always like this.

A few moments later Mary brought a tray with a bowl of stew, a lump of hard bread, and a steaming mug of tea. "Sit up, Jenny," she said, but there was no response. Mary set down the tray, covered the girl with another quilt, and let her sleep.

Mary was reading next to the fire when Dogherty let himself into the cottage. She regarded him silently as he came into the room. He pointed to the chair where Jenny slept and said, "Why is she here? Her father hit her again?"

"Shhhh!" Mary hissed. "You'll wake her."

Mary rose and led him into the kitchen. She set a place for him at the table. Dogherty poured himself a mug of tea and sat down.

"What Martin Colville needs is a bit of his own medicine. And I'm just the man to give it to him."

"Please, Sean-he's half your age and twice your size."

"And what's that supposed to mean, Mary?"

"It means you could get hurt. And the last thing we need is for you to attract the attention of the police by getting in some stupid fight. Now, finish your dinner and be quiet. You'll wake the girl."

Dogherty did as he was told and resumed eating. He took a spoonful of the stew and pulled a face. "Jesus, but this food is stone cold."

"If you'd come home at a decent hour it wouldn't be. Where have you been?"

Without lifting his head from his plate, Dogherty cast Mary an icy glance through his eyebrows. "I was in the barn," he said coldly.

"Were you on the wireless, waiting for instructions from Berlin?" Mary whispered sarcastically.

"Later, woman," Sean growled.

"Don't you realize you're wasting your time out there? And risking both our necks too?"

"I said later, woman!"

"Stupid old goat!"

"That's enough, Mary!"

"Maybe one day the boys in Berlin will give you a real assignment. Then you can get rid of all the hate that's inside you and we can get on with what's left of our lives." She rose and looked at him, shaking her head. "I'm tired, Sean. I'm going to bed. Put some more wood on the fire so Jenny will be warm enough. And don't do anything to wake her. She's had a rough time of it tonight."

Mary walked upstairs to their bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her. When she was gone, Dogherty went to the cupboard and took down a bottle of Bushmills. Whisky was like gold these days, but it was a special night so he poured himself a generous measure.

"Maybe the boys in Berlin will do just that, Mary Dogherty," he said, raising his glass in a quiet toast. "In fact, maybe they already have."

9

Alfred Vicary had actually engaged in deception to get a job with military intelligence during the First War. He was twenty-one, nearing the end of his studies at Cambridge, and convinced England was foundering and in need of all the good men she could lay her hands on. He wanted nothing to do with the infantry. He knew enough of history to realize there was no glory in it, only boredom, misery, and very likely death or serious injury.

His best friend, a brilliant philosophy student named Brendan Evans, arrived at the perfect solution. Brendan had heard the army was starting up something called the Intelligence Corps. The only qualifications were fluent German and French, extensive travel throughout Europe, the ability to ride and repair a motorbike, and perfect eyesight. Brendan had contacted the War Office and made appointments for them the next morning.

Vicary was despondent; he did not meet the qualifications. He had fluent if uninspired German, passable French, and he had traveled broadly across Europe, including inside Germany. But he had no idea how to ride a motorbike-indeed, the contraption scared the daylights out of him-and his eyesight was atrocious.

Brendan Evans was everything Vicary was not: tall, fair, strikingly handsome, possessed of a boyish lust for adventure and more women than he knew what to do with. They had one trait in common, flawless memories.

Vicary conceived his plan.

That evening, in the cool twilight of August, Brendan taught him to ride a motorcycle on a deserted patch of road in the Fens. Vicary nearly killed them both several times, but by the end of the night he was roaring along the pathways, experiencing a thrill and a recklessness he had never before felt. The following morning, during the train ride from Cambridge to London, Brendan drilled him relentlessly on the anatomy of motorbikes.

When they arrived in London, Brendan went into the War Office while Vicary waited outside in the warm sunshine. He emerged an hour later, grinning broadly. "I'm in," Brendan said. "Now, it's your turn. Listen carefully." He then proceeded to read back the entire eye chart used for the vision test, even the hopelessly tiny characters at the bottom.

Vicary removed his spectacles, handed them to Brendan, and walked like a blind man into the dark, forbidding building. He passed with flying colors-he made only one mistake, transposing a B for a D, but that was Brendan's fault, not his. Vicary was immediately commissioned as a second lieutenant in the motorcyclist section of the Intelligence Corps, given a warrant for his uniform and kit, and ordered to cut his hair, which had grown long and curly over the summer. The following day he was ordered to Euston Station to collect his motorbike, a shiny new Rudge model packed in a wooden crate. A week later Brendan and Vicary boarded a troop-ship along with their motorbikes and sailed for France.

It was all so simple then. Agents slipped behind enemy lines, counted troops, watched the railways. They even used carrier pigeons to deliver secret messages. Now it was more complex, a duel of wits over the wireless that required immense concentration and attention to detail.

Double Cross…

Karl Becker was a perfect example. He was sent by Canaris to England during the heady days of 1940, when invasion seemed certain. Becker, posing as a Swiss businessman, set himself up in suitable style in Kensington and began collecting every questionable secret he could lay his hands on. It was Becker's use of counterfeit sterling that set Vicary onto him, and within a matter of weeks he had been spun into MI5's web. Vicary, with the help of the watchers, went everywhere Becker went: to the parties where he traded in gossip and drank himself stiff on black-market champagne; to his meetings with live agents; to his dead drops; to his bedroom, where he brought his women, his men, his children, and only God knew what else. After a month Vicary brought down the hammer. He arrested Becker-pulled him from the arms of a young girl he had kept locked away and drunk on champagne-and rolled up an entire network of German agents.

Next came the tricky part. Instead of hanging Becker, Vicary turned him-convinced him to go to work for MI5 as a double agent. The following night Becker, from his prison cell, turned on his radio and tapped out a coded recognition signal to the operator in Hamburg. The operator asked him to stay on the air for instructions from his Abwehr control officer in Berlin, who ordered Becker to determine the exact location and size of an RAF fighter base in Kent. Becker confirmed the message and signed off.

But it was Vicary who went to the airfield the next day. He could have called the RAF, obtained the coordinates for the base, and sent them to the Abwehr, but it wouldn't be so easy for a spy. To make the message appear authentic, Vicary went about reconnoitering the air base just the way a spy would do it. He took the train from London and, because of delays, didn't arrive in the area until dusk. A military policeman harassed him on a hillside outside the base and asked him for his identification. Vicary could see the air base on the flats below, the same perspective from which a spy might see it. He saw a cluster of Nissen huts and a few aircraft along the grassy runway. During his return to London, Vicary composed a brief report on what he had seen. He noted that the light had been poor because the trains were late and said he had been prevented from getting too close by an MP. That night Vicary forced Becker to send the report with his own hand, for each spy had his own distinctive keying style, known as a fist, that German radio operators could recognize. Hamburg congratulated him and signed off.

Vicary then contacted the RAF and explained the situation. The real Spitfires were removed to another field, the personnel evacuated, and several badly damaged fighters were fueled and placed along the runway. That night the Luftwaffe came. The dummy planes exploded into fireballs; certainly the crews of the Heinkel bombers thought they had scored a direct hit. The next day the Abwehr asked Becker to return to Kent to assess the damage. Again, it was Vicary who went, gathered a report on what he could see, and forced Becker to send it.

The Abwehr was ecstatic. Becker was a star, a super-spy, and all it had cost the RAF was a day patching up the runway and carting off the charred skeletons of the Spitfires.

So impressed were Becker's controllers, they asked him to recruit more agents, which he did-actually, which Vicary did. By the end of 1940, Karl Becker had a ring of a dozen agents working for him, some reporting to him, some reporting directly to Hamburg. All were fictitious, products of Vicary's imagination. Vicary tended to every aspect of their lives: they fell in love, they had affairs, they complained about money, they lost houses and friends in the blitz. Vicary even allowed himself to arrest a couple of them; no network operating on enemy soil was foolproof, and the Abwehr would never believe none of their agents had been lost. It was mind-bending, tedious work, requiring attention to the most trivial detail; Vicary found it exhilarating and loved every minute of it.

The lift was on the blink again, so Vicary had to take the stairs from Boothby's lair down to Registry. Opening the door he was struck by the smell of the place: decaying paper, dust, tangy mildew from the damp creeping through the cellar walls. It reminded him of the library at the university. There were files on open shelves, files in the file cabinets, files stacked on the cold stone floor, piles of paper waiting to ripen into files. A trio of pretty girls-the shakedown night staff-moved quietly about, speaking a language of inventory Vicary could not understand. The girls-known as Registry Queens in the lexicon of the place-looked strangely out of place amid the paper and the gloom. He half expected to turn a corner and spot a pair of monks reading an ancient manuscript by candlelight.

He shivered. God, but the place was cold as a crypt. He wished he had worn a sweater or brought something warm to drink. It was all here-the entire secret history of the service. Vicary, wandering the stacks, was struck by the thought that long after he left MI5 there would be an eternal record of his every action. He wasn't certain if he found the thought comforting or sickening.

Vicary thought of Boothby's disparaging remarks about him, and a cold shiver of anger passed over him. Vicary was a damned good Double Cross officer, even Boothby couldn't deny that. He was convinced it was his training as a historian that suited him so perfectly to the work. Often, a historian must engage in conjecture-taking a series of small inconclusive clues and reaching a reasonable inference. Double Cross was very much like engaging in conjecture, only in reverse. It was the job of the Double Cross officer to provide the Germans with small inconclusive clues so they could arrive at desired conclusions. The officer had to be careful and meticulous in the clues he revealed. They had to be a careful blend of fact and fiction, of truth and painstakingly veiled lies. Vicary's bogus spies had to work very hard for their information. The intelligence had to be fed to the Germans in small, sometimes meaningless bites. It had to be consistent with the spy's cover identity. A lorry driver from Bristol, for example, could not be expected to come into possession of stolen documents in London. And no piece of intelligence could ever seem too good to be true, for information too easily obtained is easily discarded.

The files on Abwehr personnel were stored on open floor-to-ceiling shelves in a smaller room at the far end of the floor. The V 's started on a bottom shelf, then jumped to a top one. Vicary had to get down on all fours and tilt his neck sideways, as if he were looking for a lost valuable beneath a piece of furniture. Damn! The file was on the top shelf, of course. He struggled to his feet and, craning his neck, peered at the files over his half-moon reading glasses. Bloody hopeless. The files were six feet above him, too far to read the names-Boothby's revenge on all those who had not attained regulation department height.

One of the Registry Queens found him gazing upward and said she would bring him a library ladder. "Claymore tried to use a chair last week and nearly broke his neck," she sang, returning a moment later, dragging the ladder. She took another look at Vicary, smiled as if he were a daft uncle, and offered to get the file for him. Vicary assured her he could manage.

He climbed the ladder and, using his forefinger as a probe, picked through the files. He found a manila folder with a red tab: VOGEL, KURT-ABWEHR BERLIN. He pulled it down, opened it, and looked inside.

Vogel's file was empty.

A month after he arrived at MI5, Vicary had been surprised to find Nicholas Jago working there too. Jago had been head archivist at University College and was recruited by MI5 the same week as Vicary. He was assigned to Registry and ordered to impose some discipline on the sometimes fickle memory of the department. Jago, like Registry itself, was dusty and irritable and difficult to use. But once past the rough exterior he could be kind and generous, bubbling with valuable information. Jago had one other valuable skill: he knew how to lose a file as well as find one.

Despite the late hour, Vicary found Jago working at his desk in his cramped, glass-enclosed office. Unlike the file rooms it was a sanctuary of neatness and order. When Vicary rapped his knuckle against the windowed door, Jago looked up, smiled, and waved him in. Vicary noticed the smile did not extend to his eyes. He looked exhausted; Jago lived in this place. There was something else: in 1940 his wife had been killed in the blitz. Her death had left him shattered. He had taken a personal oath to defeat the Nazis-not with the gun, with organization and precision.

Vicary sat down and refused Jago's offer of tea-"real stuff I hoarded before the war," he said excitedly. Not like the atrocious wartime tobacco he was stuffing into the bowl of his pipe and setting ablaze with a match. The vile smoke smelled of burning leaves, and it hung between them in a pall while they swapped banalities about returning to the university when the job was done.

Vicary signaled he wanted to get down to business by gently clearing his throat. "I'm looking for a file on a rather obscure Abwehr officer," Vicary said. "I was surprised to find it's missing. The exterior cover is on the shelf, but the contents are gone."

"What's the name?" Jago asked.

"Kurt Vogel."

Jago's face darkened. "Christ! Let me take a look for it. Wait here, Alfred. I'll just be a moment."

"I'll come with you," Vicary said. "Maybe I can help."

"No, no," Jago insisted. "I wouldn't hear of it. I don't help you find spies, you don't help me find files." He laughed at his own joke. "Stay here. Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a moment."

That's the second time you've said that, Vicary thought: I'll just be a moment. Vicary knew that Jago had become obsessive about his files, but one missing dossier on an Abwehr officer was not cause for a departmental emergency. Files were misplaced and mistakenly discarded all the time. Once Boothby sounded a red alert after losing an entire briefcase filled with important files. Department legend said they had been found a week later at the flat of his mistress.

Jago rushed back into the office a moment later, a cloud of the vile pipe smoke floating behind him like steam from a locomotive. He handed Vicary the file and sat down behind his desk.

"Just as I thought," Jago said, absurdly proud of himself. "It was right there on the shelf. One of the girls must have placed it in the wrong folder. Happens all the time."

Vicary listened to the dubious excuse and frowned. "Interesting-never happened to me before."

"Well, maybe you're just lucky. We handle thousands of files a week down here. We could use more staff. I've taken it up with the director-general, but he says we've used up our allotment and we can't have any more."

Jago's pipe had gone dead and he was making a vast show of relighting it. Vicary's eyes teared as the little chamber of an office filled with smoke again. Nicholas Jago was a thoroughly good and honest man, but Vicary didn't believe a word of his story. He believed the file had been pulled by someone recently and hadn't made its way back to the shelf. And the someone who pulled it must have been someone damned important, judging by the look on Jago's face when Vicary had asked for it.

Vicary used the file to wave a clear patch in the cloud of smoke. "Who had Vogel's file last?"

"Come on, Alfred, you know I can't tell you that."

It was the truth. Mere mortals like Vicary had to sign out files. Records were kept on who pulled what files and when. Only the Registry staff and department heads had access to those records. A handful of very senior officers could get files without signing them out. Vicary suspected Vogel's file had been pulled by one of those officers.

"All I have to do is ask Boothby for a chit to see the access list and he'll give it to me," Vicary said. "Why don't you let me see it now and save me the time?"

"He might, he might not."

"What do you mean by that, Nicholas?"

"Listen, old man, the last thing I want to do is get between you and Boothby again." Jago was busying himself with the pipe again-stuffing the bowl, digging a match out of the matchbox. He stuck the thing between his clenched teeth so the bowl bounced while he spoke. "Talk to Boothby. If he says you can see the access list, it's all yours."

Vicary left him sitting in his smoky glass chamber, trying to set fire to his cheap tobacco, his match flaring with every drag on the pipe. Taking one last glance at him as he walked away with Vogel's file, he thought Jago looked like a lighthouse on a foggy point.

Vicary stopped at the canteen on the way back up to his office. He couldn't remember when he had last eaten. His hunger was a dull ache. He no longer craved fine food. Eating had become a practical undertaking, something to be done out of necessity, not pleasure. Like walking London at night-do it quickly, try not to get hurt. He remembered the afternoon in May 1940 when they had come for him. Mr. Ashworth delivered two nice lamb chops to your house a short time ago… Such a waste of precious time.

It was late and the selection was worse than usual: a chunk of brown bread, some suspect cheese, a bubbling cauldron of brown liquid. Someone had crossed out the words Beef broth on the menu and written Stone soup. Vicary passed on the cheese and sniffed at the broth. It seemed harmless enough. He cautiously ladled himself out a bowl. The bread was as hard as the cutting board. Vicary hacked off a hunk with the dull knife. Using Vogel's file as a service tray, he picked his way through the tables and chairs. John Masterman sat stooped over a volume of Latin. A pair of famous lawyers sat at a corner table, rearguing an old courtroom duel. A popular writer of crime novels was scribbling in a battered notebook. Vicary shook his head. MI5 had recruited a remarkable array of talent.

He walked carefully up the stairs, the bowl of broth balanced precariously on the file. The last thing he needed was to soil the dossier. Jago had written countless irate memoranda imploring case officers to take better care of the files.

What's the name?

Kurt Vogel.

Christ! Let me take a look for it.

Something about it just wasn't right-that Vicary knew. Better not to force it. Better to set it aside and let his subconscious turn over the pieces.

He set the file and the soup down on his desk and switched on the lamp. He read the file through once while he sipped at the soup. It tasted like a boiled leather boot. Salt was one of the few spices the cooks had in plentiful supply, and they had used it generously. By the time he finished reading the file the second time, he had a desert thirst and his fingers were beginning to swell.

Vicary looked up and said, "Harry, I think we have a problem."

Harry Dalton, who had drifted off to sleep at his desk in the common area outside Vicary's office, got to his feet and came inside. They were a dubious pairing, jokingly referred to inside the department as Muscle & Brains, Ltd. Harry was tall and athletic, sharp-suited, with thickly brilliantined black hair, intelligent blue eyes, and a ready all-purpose smile. Before the war he was Detective-Inspector Harry Dalton of the Metropolitan Police Department's elite murder squad. He was born and raised in Battersea and still had a trace of working-class south London in his soft pleasant voice.

"He's got brains, that's for certain," Vicary said. "Look at this: doctorate of law from Leipzig University, studied under Heller and Rosenberg. Doesn't sound like your typical Nazi to me. The Nazis perverted the laws of Germany. Someone with an education like that couldn't be too thrilled about them. Then in 1935 he suddenly decides to forsake the law and go to work for Canaris as his personal attorney, a sort of in-house counsel for the Abwehr? I don't believe that. I think he's a spy, and this business about being Canaris's legal adviser is just another layer of cover."

Vicary was flipping through the file again.

"You have a theory?" Harry asked.

"Three theories, actually."

"Let's hear them."

"Number one, Canaris has lost faith in the British networks and has commissioned Vogel to undertake an investigation. A man with Vogel's background and training is the perfect officer to sift through all the files and all the agent reports to look for inconsistencies. We've been damned careful, Harry, but maintaining Double Cross is an enormously complex task. I bet we've made a couple of mistakes along the way. And if the right person were looking for them-an intelligent man like Kurt Vogel, for instance-he might be able to spot them."

"Theory two?"

"Theory two, Canaris has commissioned Vogel to construct a new network. It's very late in the game for something like that. Agents would have to be discovered, recruited, trained, and inserted into the country. That usually takes months to do the right way. I doubt that's what they're up to, but it can't be totally discounted."

"Theory three?"

"Theory three is that Kurt Vogel is the control officer of a network we don't know about."

"An entire network of agents that we haven't uncovered-is that possible?"

"We have to assume it is."

"Then all our doubles would be at risk."

"It's a house of cards, Harry. All it takes is one good agent, and the entire thing comes crashing down."

Vicary lit a cigarette. The tobacco took the aftertaste of the broth out of his mouth.

"Canaris must be under enormous pressure to deliver. He'd want the best to handle the operation."

"So that means Kurt Vogel is a man operating in a pressure cooker."

"Right."

"That could make him dangerous."

"It could also make him careless. He has to make a move. He has to use his radio or send an agent into the country. And when he does, we'll be on to him."

They sat in silence for a moment, Vicary smoking, Harry thumbing his way through Vogel's file. Then Vicary told him about what had happened in Registry.

"Lots of files go missing now and again, Alfred."

"Yes, but why this file? And more important, why now?"

"Good questions, but I suspect the answers are very simple. When you're in the middle of an investigation it's best to stay focused, not get sidetracked."

"I know, Harry," Vicary said, frowning. "But it's driving me to distraction."

Harry said, "I know one or two of the Registry Queens."

Vicary looked up. "I'm sure you do."

"I'll poke around, ask a few questions."

"Do it quietly."

"There's no other way to do it, Alfred."

"Jago's lying-he's hiding something."

"Why would he lie?"

"I don't know," Vicary said, crushing out his cigarette, "but I'm paid to think wicked thoughts."

10

Officially it was called the Government Code and Cipher School. However, it was not a school at all. It looked as though it might be a school of some kind-a large ugly Victorian mansion surrounded by a high fence-but most people in the narrow-streeted railway town of Bletchley understood that something portentous was going on there. The great lawns were covered with dozens of makeshift huts. The remaining space had been trampled into pathways of frozen mud. The gardens were overgrown and shabby, like tiny jungles. The staff was an odd collection-the country's brightest mathematicians, chess champions, crossword-puzzle wizards-all assembled for one purpose: cracking German codes.

Even in the notoriously eccentric world of Bletchley Park, Denholm Saunders was considered an oddball. Before the war he had been a top mathematician at Cambridge. Now he was among the best cryptanalysts in the world. He also lived in a hamlet outside Bletchley with his mother and his Siamese cats, Plato and St. Thomas Aquinas.

It was late afternoon. Saunders was seated at his desk in the mansion, working over a pair of messages sent by the Abwehr in Hamburg to German agents inside Britain. The messages had been intercepted by the Radio Security Service, flagged as suspicious, and forwarded to Bletchley Park for decoding.

Saunders whistled tunelessly while his pencil scraped across his pad, a habit that irritated his colleagues no end. He worked in the hand cipher section of the park. His work space was crowded and cramped, but it was relatively warm. Better to be here than outside in one of the huts, where cryptanalysts slaved over German army and naval ciphers like Eskimos in an igloo.

Two hours later the scraping and the whistling stopped. Saunders was aware only of the sound of melting snow gurgling through the gutters of the old house. The work that afternoon had been far from challenging; the messages had been transmitted in a variation of a code Saunders unbuttoned himself in 1940.

"My goodness, but they are getting a bit boring, aren't they?" Saunders said, to no one in particular.

His superior was a Scot named Richardson. Saunders knocked, stepped inside, and laid the pair of decodes on the desk. Richardson read them and frowned. An officer at MI5 named Alfred Vicary had put out a red flag for this kind of thing just yesterday.

Richardson called for a motorcycle courier.

"There's one other thing," Saunders said.

"What's that?"

"The first message-the agent seemed to have some difficulty with the Morse. In fact he asked for the keyer to send it twice. They get testy about things like that. Could be nothing. There might have been some interference. But it might be a good idea to tell the boys at MI5 about it."

Richardson thought, Good idea indeed.

When Saunders was gone he typed out a brief memo describing how the agent appeared to struggle with the Morse. Five minutes later the decodes and Richardson's note were tucked inside a leather pouch for the forty-two-mile ride to London.

11

"It was the oddest thing I've ever seen," Arthur Barnes told his wife over breakfast that morning. Barnes, as he did every morning, had walked his beloved corgi Fionna along the waterfront. Part of it still was open to civilians; most of it had been sealed off and designated a restricted military zone. Everyone wondered what the military was doing there. No one talked about it. Dawn was late that morning-a gray overcast sky, rain now and again. Fionna was off her leash, scampering up and down the docks.

Fionna spotted the thing first, then Barnes did.

"A bloody giant concrete monster, Mabel. Like a block of flats lying on its side." Two tugs were pulling it out to sea. Barnes carried a pair of field glasses inside his coat-a friend once spotted the conning tower of a German U-BOAT and Barnes was dying to catch a glimpse of one too. He removed the glasses and raised them to his eyes.

The concrete monster had a boat attached to it with a broad, flat prow pushing through the choppy seas. Barnes scanned off its port side-"Hard to tell the port side from the starboard side, mind you"-and he spotted a small vessel with a bunch of military types on deck.

"I couldn't believe it, Mabel," he recounted, finishing the last of his toast. "They were clapping and cheering, giving each other hugs and pats on the back." He shook his head. "Imagine that. Hitler's got the world by the short hairs, and our boys get excited because they can make a giant hunk of concrete float."

The giant floating concrete structure spotted by Arthur Barnes that dreary January morning was code-named Phoenix. It was 200 feet long, 50 feet wide, and displaced more than 6,000 tons of water. More than two hundred were scheduled to be built. Its interior-invisible from Barnes's vantage point on the harbor front-was a labyrinth of hollow chambers and scuttling valves, for the Phoenix was not designed to remain on the surface for long. It was designed to be towed across the English Channel and sunk off the coast of Normandy. The Phoenixes were just one component of a massive Allied project to construct an artificial harbor in England and drag it to France on D-Day. The overall code name for the project was Operation Mulberry.

It was Dieppe that taught them their lesson, Dieppe and the amphibious landings in the Mediterranean. At Dieppe, site of the disastrous Allied raid on France in August 1942, the Germans denied the Allies use of a port for as long as possible. In the Mediterranean they destroyed ports before abandoning them, rendering them useless for long periods. The invasion planners determined that attempting to capture a port intact was hopeless. They decided the men and supplies would come ashore the same way-on the beaches of Normandy.

The problem was the weather. Studies of weather patterns along the French coast showed that periods of fair conditions could be expected to last no more than four consecutive days. Therefore, the invasion planners had to assume that supplies would have to be brought ashore in a storm.

In July 1943, Prime Minister Winston Churchill and a delegation of three hundred officials sailed for Canada aboard the Queen Mary. Churchill and Roosevelt were meeting in Quebec in August to approve plans for the Normandy invasion. During the journey, Professor J. D. Bernal, a distinguished physicist, gave a dramatic demonstration in one of the vessel's luxurious staterooms. He filled the bath with a few inches of water, the shallow end representing the Normandy beaches, the deep end the Baie de la Seine. Bernal placed twenty paper ships in the bath and used a back brush to simulate stormy conditions. The boats immediately sank. Bernal then inflated a Mae West life belt and laid it across the bath as a breakwater. The back brush was again used to create a storm, but this time the vessels survived. Bernal explained that the same thing would happen at Normandy. A storm would create havoc; an artificial harbor was needed.

At Quebec, the British and the Americans agreed to build two artificial harbors for the Normandy invasion, each with the capacity of the great port of Dover. Dover took seven years to build; the British and Americans had roughly eight months. It was a task of unimaginable proportions. Each Mulberry cost $96 million. The British economy, crippled by four years of war, would have to supply four million tons of concrete and steel. Hundreds of topflight engineers would be needed, as well as tens of thousands of skilled construction workers. To get the Mulberries from England to France on D-Day would require every available tug in Britain and on the eastern seaboard of the United States.

The only assignment equal to the task of building the Mulberries would be keeping them secret-proved by the fact that Arthur Barnes and his corgi Fionna were still standing on the waterfront when the coaster carrying the team of British and American Mulberry engineers nosed against the dock. The team disembarked and walked toward a waiting bus. One of the men broke away toward a staff car waiting to return him to London. The driver stepped out and crisply opened the rear door, and Commander Peter Jordan climbed inside.

They came for him on a Friday. He would always remember them as Laurel and Hardy: the thick, stubby American who smelled of bargain aftershave and his lunchtime beer and sausage; the thin smooth Englishman who shook Jordan's hand as though searching for a pulse. In reality their names were Leamann and Broome-or at least that's what it said on the identification cards they waved past him. Leamann said he was with the War Department; Broome, the angular Englishman, murmured something about being attached to the War Office. Neither man wore a uniform-Leamann a shabby brown suit that pulled across his corpulent stomach and rode up his crotch, Broome an elegantly cut suit of charcoal gray, a little too heavy for the American fall weather.

Jordan received them in his magnificent lower Manhattan office. Leamann suppressed little belches while admiring Jordan's spectacular view of the East River bridges: the Brooklyn Bridge, the Manhattan Bridge, the Williamsburg. Broome, who allowed almost no interest in things man-made, commented on the weather-a perfect autumn day, a crystalline blue sky, brilliant orange sunshine. An afternoon to make you believe Manhattan is the most spectacular place on earth. They walked to the south window and chatted while watching freighters move in and out of New York Harbor.

"Tell us about the work you're doing now, Mr. Jordan," Leamann said, a trace of South Boston in his voice.

It was a sore subject. He was still the chief engineer of the Northeast Bridge Company and it was still the largest bridge construction firm on the East Coast. But his dream of starting his own engineering firm had died with the war, just as he feared.

Leamann, it seemed, had memorized his resume, and he recited it now as if Jordan had been nominated for an award. "First in your class at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Engineer of the Year in 1938. Scientific American says you're the greatest thing since the guy who invented the wheel. You're hot stuff, Mr. Jordan."

An enlarged version of the Scientific American article hung on the wall in a neat black frame. The photograph taken of him then looked like another man. He was thinner now-some said more handsome-and even though he still was not yet forty, flecks of gray had appeared at his temples.

Broome, the narrow Englishman, was wandering the office, scrutinizing the photographs and the models of bridges the company had designed and built.

"You have many Germans working here," Broome observed, as if it would be a news bulletin to Jordan. It was true-Germans among the engineering staff and Germans on the secretarial staff. Jordan's own secretary was a woman named Miss Hofer whose family came to America from Stuttgart when she was a girl. She still spoke English with a German accent. Then, as if to prove Broome's point, two mail boys walked past Jordan's door prattling in Berlin-accented German.

"What kind of security checks have you run on them?" It was Leamann talking again. Jordan could tell he was a cop of some sort-or at least he had been a cop in another life. It was written in the poor fit of his threadbare suit and the look of dogged determination on his face. For Leamann the world was filled with evil people, and he was the only thing standing between order and anarchy.

"We don't run security checks on them. We build bridges here, not bombs."

"How do you know they're not sympathetic to the other side?"

"Leamann. Is that a German name?"

Leamann's meaty face collapsed into a frown. "Irish, actually."

Broome broke off his inspection of the bridge models to chuckle at the exchange.

Then he said, "Do you know a man named Walker Hardegen?"

Jordan had the uncomfortable feeling he had been investigated. "I think you already know the answer to that question. And yes, his family is German. He speaks the language and he knows the country. He's been invaluable to my father-in-law."

"You mean your former father-in-law?" Broome asked.

"We've remained very close since Margaret's death."

Broome was stooped over another model. "Is this a suspension bridge?"

"No, it's a cantilever design. You're not an engineer?"

Broome looked up and smiled as if he found the question somewhat offensive. "No, of course not."

Jordan sat down behind his desk. "All right, gentlemen, suppose you tell me what this is all about."

"It has to do with the invasion of Europe," Broome said. "We may need your help."

Jordan smiled. "You want me to build a bridge between England and France?"

"Something like that," Leamann said.

Broome was lighting a cigarette. He blew an elegant stream of smoke toward the river.

"Actually, Mr. Jordan, it's nothing like that at all."

12

The skies erupted into a downpour as Alfred Vicary hurried across Parliament Square toward the Underground War Rooms, Winston Churchill's subterranean headquarters beneath the pavements of Westminster. The prime minister had personally telephoned Vicary and asked to see him straightaway. Vicary had quickly changed into his uniform and, in his haste, fled MI5 headquarters without an umbrella. Now, his only defense against the onslaught of freezing rain was to quicken his pace, one hand clutching the throat of his mackintosh, the other holding a batch of files over his head like a shield. He rushed past the contemplative statues of Lincoln and Beaconsfield and then, thoroughly wet, presented himself to the Royal Marine guard at the sandbagged doorway of No. 2 Great George Street.

MI5 was in a panic. The previous evening, a pair of decoded Abwehr signals had arrived by motorcycle courier from Bletchley Park. They confirmed Vicary's worst suspicions-at least two agents were operating inside Britain without MI5's knowledge, and it appeared the Germans planned to send in another. It was a disaster. Vicary, after reading the messages with a sinking heart, had telephoned Sir Basil at home and broken the news. Sir Basil had contacted the director-general and other senior officers involved in Double Cross. By midnight the lights were burning on the fifth floor. Vicary was now heading one of the most important cases of the war. He had slept less than an hour. His head ached, his eyes burned, his thoughts were coming and going in chaotic, turbulent flashes.

The guard glanced at Vicary's identification and waved him inside. Vicary descended the stairs and crossed the small lobby. Ironically, Neville Chamberlain had ordered construction to begin on the Underground War Rooms the day he returned from Munich declaring "peace in our time." Vicary would always think of the place as a subterranean monument to the failure of appeasement. Shielded by four feet of concrete reinforced with old London tram rails, the underground labyrinth was regarded as absolutely bombproof. Along with Churchill's personal command post, the most vital and secret arms of the British government were housed here.

Vicary moved down the corridor, ears filled with the clatter of typewriters and the rattle of a dozen unanswered telephones. The low ceiling was buttressed by the timbers of one of Nelson's ships of the line. A sign warned MIND YOUR HEAD. Vicary, barely five and a half feet tall, passed easily beneath it. The walls, once the color of Devonshire cream, had faded like old newspaper to a dull beige. The floors were covered in an ugly brown linoleum. Overhead, in a brace of drainage pipes, Vicary could hear the gurgle of sewage from the aboveground New Public Offices. Even though the air was filtered by a special ventilation system, it smelled of unwashed bodies and stale cigarette smoke. Vicary approached a doorway, where another Royal Marine guard stood at ease. The guard snapped to attention as Vicary passed, the crack of his heels deadened by a special rubber mat.

Vicary looked at the faces of the staff who worked, lived, ate, and slept belowground in the prime minister's subterranean fortress. The word pale did not do justice to the state of their complexions; they were pasty, waxen troglodytes, scampering about their underground warren. Suddenly, Vicary's windowless hutch in St. James's Street didn't seem so bad after all. At least it was above the ground. At least there was something approaching fresh air.

Churchill's private quarters were located in room 65A, next door to the map room and across the hall from the Transatlantic Telephone Room. An aide took Vicary immediately inside, earning him the icy stares of a band of bureaucrats who looked as though they had been waiting since the last war. It was a tiny space, much of it consumed by a small bed made up with gray army blankets. At the foot of the bed stood a table with a bottle and two glasses. The BBC had installed a permanent microphone so Churchill could make his radio broadcasts from the safety of his underground fortress. Vicary noticed a small, darkened sign that said QUIET-ON THE AIR. The room contained only one luxury item, a humidor for the prime minister's Romeo y Julieta cigars.

Churchill, cloaked in a green silk robe, the first cigar of the day between his fingers, sat at his small desk. He remained there as Vicary entered the room. Vicary sat on the edge of the bed and regarded the figure before him. He was not the same man Vicary had seen that afternoon in May 1940. Nor was he the jaunty, confident figure of newsreels and propaganda films. He was obviously a man who had worked too much and slept too little. He had just returned to Britain a few days earlier from North Africa, where he convalesced after suffering a mild heart attack and contracting pneumonia. His eyes were rimmed with red, his cheeks puffy and pale. He managed a weak smile for his old friend.

"Hello, Alfred, how have you been?" Churchill said, when the Royal Marine orderly closed the door.

"Fine, but I should be asking that of you. You're the one who's been through the mill."

"Never better," Churchill said. "Bring me up to date."

"We've intercepted two messages from Hamburg to German agents operating inside Britain." Vicary handed them across to Churchill. "As you know, we were acting on the assumption that we had arrested, hanged, or turned every German agent operating in Britain. This is obviously a major blow. If the agents transmit any information that contradicts material we've sent through Double Cross, they will suspect everything. We also believe they are planning to insert a new agent into the country."

"What are you doing to stop them?"

Vicary briefed Churchill on the steps they had taken thus far. "But unfortunately, Prime Minister, the chances of capturing the agent at the drop are not good. In the past-in the summer of 1940, for example, when they were sending in spies for the invasion-we were able to capture incoming spies because the Germans often told old agents operating in Britain precisely when, where, and how the new spies were coming."

"And those old agents were working for you as doubles."

"Or sitting in a prison cell, yes. But in this case, the message to the existing agent was very vague, a code phrase only: EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE. We assume it tells the agent everything he needs to know. Unfortunately, it tells us nothing. We can only guess how the new spy is planning to get into the country. And unless we're very lucky, the chances of capturing him are slim at best."

"Damn!" Churchill swore, bringing his hand down on the arm of the chair. He rose and poured brandy for them both. He stared into his glass, mumbling to himself, as if he had forgotten Vicary was there.

"Do you remember the afternoon in 1940 when I asked you to come to work for the MI-Five?"

"Of course, Prime Minister."

"I was right, wasn't I?"

"How do you mean?"

"You've had the time of your life, haven't you? Look at you, Alfred, you're a completely different man. Good heavens, but I wish I looked as good as you."

"Thank you, Prime Minister."

"You've done marvelous work. But it will all mean nothing if these German spies find what they're looking for. Do you understand?"

Vicary exhaled heavily. "I understand the stakes involved, Prime Minister."

"I want them stopped, Alfred. I want them crushed."

Vicary blinked rapidly and, unconsciously, beat his breast pockets for his half-moon reading glasses. Churchill's cigar had gone dead in his hand. Relighting it, he indulged himself in a quiet moment of smoking.

"How's Boothby?" Churchill said finally.

Vicary sighed. "As ever, Prime Minister."

"Supportive?"

"He wants to be kept abreast of every move I make."

"In writing, I suppose. Boothby's a stickler for having things in writing. Man's office generates more bloody paper than the Times."

Vicary permitted himself a mild chuckle.

"I never told you this, Alfred, but I had my doubts about whether you could be successful. Whether you truly had what it took to operate in the world of military intelligence. Oh, I never doubted you had the brains, the intelligence. But I doubted whether you possessed the sort of low cunning necessary to be a good intelligence officer. I also doubted whether you could be ruthless enough."

Churchill's words stunned Vicary.

"Now why are you looking at me like that? You're one of the most decent men I've ever met. The men who usually succeed in your line of work are men like Boothby. He'd arrest his own mother if he thought it would further his career or stab the enemy in the back."

"But I have changed, Prime Minister. I've done things I've never thought I was capable of doing. I've also done things I'm ashamed of."

Churchill looked perplexed. "Ashamed?"

" 'When one is employed to sweep chimneys one must black one's fingers,' " Vicary said. "Sir James Harris wrote those words while he was serving as minister to The Hague in 1785. He detested the fact that he was asked to pay bribes to spies and informers. Sometimes, I wish it were still that simple."

Vicary remembered a night in September 1940. He and his team had hidden in the heather on a clifftop overlooking a rocky Cornish beach, sheltered from the cold rain beneath a black oilskin tarp. Vicary knew the German would come that night; the Abwehr had asked Karl Becker to arrange a reception party for him. He was little more than a boy, Vicary remembered, and by the time he reached the shore in his inflatable raft he was half dead with cold. He fell into the arms of the Special Branch men, babbling in German, just happy to be alive. His papers were atrocious, his two hundred pounds of currency badly forged, his English limited to a few well-rehearsed pleasantries. It was so bad Vicary had to conduct the interrogation in German. The spy had been assigned to gather intelligence on coastal defenses and, when the invasion came, engage in sabotage. Vicary determined that he was useless. He wondered how many more Canaris had like him-poorly trained, poorly equipped and financed, with virtually no chance of succeeding. Maintaining MI5's elaborate deception required that they execute a few spies, so Vicary recommended hanging him. He attended the execution at Wandsworth Prison and would never forget the look in the spy's eyes as the hangman slipped the hood over his head.

"You must make a stone of your heart, Alfred," Churchill said in a hoarse whisper. "We don't have time for feelings like shame or compassion-none of us, not now. You must set aside whatever morals you still have, set aside whatever feelings of human kindness you still possess, and do whatever it takes to win. Is that clear?"

"It is, Prime Minister."

Churchill leaned closer and spoke in a confessional tone. "There is an unfortunate truth about war. While it is virtually impossible for one man to win a war, it is entirely possible for one man to lose one." Churchill paused. "For the sake of our friendship, Alfred, don't be that man."

Vicary, shaken by Churchill's admonition, gathered up his things and showed himself to the door. Opening it, he walked out into the corridor. On the wall the weather board, updated hourly, read rainy. Behind him he heard Winston Churchill, alone in his underground chamber, muttering to himself. It took Vicary a moment to understand what the prime minister was saying. "Blasted English weather," Churchill murmured. "Blasted English weather."

Vicary, by instinct, looked for clues in the past. He read and reread decodes of messages sent by agents inside Britain to the radio operators in Hamburg. Decodes of messages sent by Hamburg to the agents inside Britain. Case histories, even cases he had been involved with. He read the final report of one of the first cases he had handled, an incident that had ended in the north of Scotland at a place aptly named Cape Wrath. He read the letter of commendation that went into his file, grudgingly written by Sir Basil Boothby, division head, copy forwarded to Winston Churchill, prime minister. He felt the pride all over again.

Harry Dalton shuttled back and forth between Vicary's desk and Registry like some medieval outrider, bringing new documents in one direction, returning old ones in the other. Other officers, aware of the tension building in Vicary's office, drifted past his doorway in twos and threes like motorists passing a road accident-eyes averted, stealing quick frightened glances. When Vicary would finish with one batch of files, Harry would ask, "Anything?" Vicary would pull a fussy frown and say,

"No, nothing, dammit."

By two o'clock that afternoon the walls were collapsing in on him. He had smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too many cups of murky gray tea.

"I need some fresh air, Harry."

"Get out of here for a couple of hours. Be good for you."

"I'm going to take a walk-have some lunch, perhaps."

"Want some company?"

"No, thanks."

A freezing drizzle, like the smoke of a nearby battle, drifted over Westminster as Vicary marched along the Embankment. A bitterly cold wind rose from the river, clattered the shabby temporary street signs, whistled through a pile of splintered timber and broken brick where once a splendid building stood. Vicary moved quickly with his stiff-jointed mechanical limp, head down, hands plunged into coat pockets. By the look on his face a passing stranger might have guessed he was late for an important meeting or fleeing an unpleasant one.

The Abwehr had just so many ways of inserting an agent into Britain. Many put ashore in small boats launched from submarines. Vicary had just read arrest reports of double agents code-named Mutt and Jeff; they waded ashore from an Arado seaplane near the herring fishing village of Macduff east of Spey Bay. Vicary already had asked the coastguards and Royal Navy to be especially vigilant. But the British coastline stretches many thousands of miles, impossible to cover entirely, and the chances of catching an agent on a darkened beach were slim.

The Abwehr had parachuted spies into Britain. It was impossible to account for every square inch of airspace, but Vicary had asked the RAF to be watchful of stray aircraft.

The Abwehr had dropped and landed agents in Eire and Ulster. To get to England they had to take the ferry. Vicary had asked the ferry operators in Liverpool to keep an eye out for strange passengers: anyone unfamiliar with the routine of ferry passage, uncomfortable with the language or currency. He couldn't give them a description because he didn't have one.

The brisk walk and cold weather made him hungry. He entered a pub near Victoria Station and ordered a vegetable pie and a half pint of beer.

You must make a stone of your heart, Churchill had said.

Unfortunately, he had done that a long time ago. Helen… She was the spoiled, attractive daughter of a wealthy industrialist, and Vicary, against his better judgment, had fallen hopelessly in love with her. Their relationship began to crumble the afternoon they made love for the first time. Somehow, Helen's father had read the signs correctly: the way they held hands on the way back from the lake, the way Helen touched Vicary's already thinning hair. That evening he summoned Helen for a private chat. Under no circumstances would she be allowed to marry the son of a midlevel bank clerk who attended university on a scholarship. Helen was instructed to terminate the relationship as quickly and quietly as possible, and she did exactly as she was told. She was that kind of girl. Vicary never held it against her, and he loved her still. But something went out of him that day. He supposed it was his ability to trust. He wondered if he would ever get it back.

It is virtually impossible for one man to win a war…

Vicary thought, Damn the Old Man for laying that on my shoulders.

The publican, a well-fed woman, appeared at the table. "That bad, dearie?"

Vicary looked down at his plate. The carrots and potatoes had been pushed to the side and he had been absently trailing the point of his knife through the gravy. He looked at the plate carefully and noticed he had traced an outline of Britain in the brown mess.

He thought, Where will that damned spy land?

"It was fine," Vicary said politely, handing the plate over. "I suppose I wasn't quite as hungry as I thought."

Outside Vicary turned up the collar of his overcoat and started back toward the office.

It is entirely possible for one man to lose one.

Dead leaves rattled across Vicary's path as he hurried along Birdcage Walk. The afternoon's last light retreated with little resistance. In the gathering darkness, Vicary could see the blackout curtains closing like eyelids in the windows overlooking St. James's Park. He imagined Helen standing in one of the windows, watching him hurry along the walkway below. He entertained a wild fantasy that by solving the case, arresting the spies, and winning the war he would prove himself worthy of her and she would have him back.

Don't be that man.

There was something else Churchill had said; he had been complaining about the ceaseless rain. The prime minister, safe in the shelter of his subterranean fortress, complaining about the weather…

Vicary rushed past the guard at MI5 headquarters without showing his identification badge.

"Any inspiration?" Harry asked, when Vicary returned to his office.

"Perhaps. If you needed to get a spy into the country on short notice, Harry, which route would you use?"

"I suppose I'd come through the east: Kent, East Anglia, even eastern Scotland."

"My thoughts exactly."

"So?"

"If you were mustering an operation quickly, which mode of transportation would you choose?"

"That depends."

"Come on, Harry!"

"I suppose I'd choose an airplane."

"Why not a submarine-put the spy ashore in a raft?"

"Because it's easier to get a small plane on short notice than a precious submarine."

"Exactly, Harry. And what do you need to drop a spy into England by plane?"

"Decent weather, for one thing."

"Right again, Harry."

Vicary snatched up the telephone receiver and waited for the operator to come on the line. "This is Vicary. Connect me with the RAF meteorological service immediately."

A young woman picked up a moment later. "Hello."

"This is Vicary from the War Office. I need some information about the weather."

"Quite a nasty spell we're having, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes," Vicary said impatiently. "When is it going to break in the east?"

"We expect the current system to move offshore sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"And we'll have clear skies?"

"Crystal."

"Damn!"

"But not for long. There's another front behind it, moving rapidly across the country in a southeasterly direction."

"How far behind it?"

"That's difficult to say. Probably twelve to eighteen hours."

"And after that?"

"The entire country will be in the soup for the next week-intermittent snow and rain."

"Thank you."

Vicary put down the phone and turned to Harry. "If our theory holds, our agent will try to enter the country by parachute tomorrow night."

13

The bicycle ride down to the beach usually took about five minutes. Sean Dogherty, late that afternoon, timed it just to make certain. He pedaled at a careful, unhurried pace, head inclined into the freshening wind beating off the sea. He wished the bicycle were in better shape. Like wartime England itself, it was battered, kicked around, desperately in need of maintenance. It clattered and grated with every turn of the pedals. The chain needed oil, which was scarce, and the tires were so bald and patched Dogherty might as well have been riding on the rims.

The rain had tapered off at midday. Plump, broken clouds floated over Dogherty's head like barrage balloons adrift at their moorings. Behind him the sun lay on the horizon like a fireball. The marshes and hillsides burned with a fine orange light.

Dogherty felt an intense excitement rising in his chest. He had not felt anything like this since the first time he met his Abwehr contact in London early in the war.

The road ended in a grove of pines at the base of the dunes. A weathered sign warned of mines on the beach; Dogherty, like everyone else in Hampton Sands, knew there were none. In the bicycle's basket, Dogherty had placed a sealed quart jar of precious petrol. He removed the jar, pushed the bicycle into the grove, and leaned it carefully against a tree.

Dogherty checked his watch-five minutes exactly.

A footpath led through the trees. Dogherty followed it, sand and dry pine needles beneath his feet, and started through the dunes. The crash of breaking waves filled the air.

The sea opened before him. The tide had reached its high mark two hours ago. Now it was running out fast and hard. By midnight, when the drop was scheduled, there would be a wide strip of flat hard sand along the water's edge, perfect for landing an agent by parachute.

Dogherty had the beach to himself. He returned to the pine trees and spent the next five minutes gathering enough wood for three small signal fires. It took four trips to carry the wood to the beach. He checked the wind-from the northeast, about twenty miles per hour. Dogherty stacked the wood in piles twenty yards apart in a straight line indicating the direction of the wind.

The twilight was dying. Dogherty opened the jar of petrol and doused the wood. He was to wait by his radio tonight until he received a signal from Hamburg that the plane was approaching. Then he would ride down to the beach, light the signal fires, take in the agent. Simple, if everything went according to plan.

Dogherty started back across the beach. It was then he saw Mary standing atop the dunes, silhouetted by the last light of sunset, arms folded beneath her breasts. The wind tossed hair across her face. He had told her the previous night; told her that the Abwehr had asked him to take in an agent. He had asked her to leave Hampton Sands until it was over; they had friends and family in London she could stay with. Mary had refused to leave. She had not said a word to him since. They bumped around the cramped cottage in angry silence, eyes averted, Mary slamming pots onto the stove and breaking plates and cups because of her jangled nerves. It was as if she were staying to punish him with her presence.

By the time Dogherty reached the top of the dunes Mary was gone. He followed the path to the spot where he had left the bicycle. Mary had taken it. Dogherty thought, Another round in our silent war. He turned up his collar against the wind and walked back to the cottage.

Jenny Colville had discovered the spot when she was ten years old-a small depression in the pine trees, several hundred yards from the roadway, sheltered from the wind by a pair of large rocks. A perfect hiding place. She had constructed a crude camp stove by stacking stones in a circle and placing a small metal grill on top. Now she laid the makings of a fire-pine needles, dried dune grass, small lengths of fallen tree limbs-and touched a match to it. She blew on it gently, and a moment later the fire crackled into life.

She kept a small case hidden beneath the rocks, covered with a layer of pine needles. She brushed away the needles and pulled it out. Opening the lid, Jenny removed the contents: a worn woolen blanket, a small metal pot, a chipped enamel mug, and a tin of dry, dusty tea. Jenny unfolded the blanket and spread it next to the fire. She sat down and warmed her hands against the flames.

Two years ago a villager had found her things and concluded a tinker was living on the beach. It caused the most excitement in Hampton Sands since the fire at St. John's in 1912. For a time Jenny stayed away. But the scandal quickly calmed and she was able to return.

The flames died, leaving a bed of glowing red embers. Jenny filled the pot with water from a canteen she had carried from home. She set the pot on the grill and waited for it to boil, listening to the sound of the sea and the wind hissing through the pines.

As always, the place worked its magic.

She began to forget about her problems-her father.

Earlier that afternoon, when she arrived home from school, he had been sitting at the kitchen table, drunk. Soon he would become belligerent, then angry, then violent. He would take it out on the person nearest him; inevitably that would be Jenny. She decided to head off the beating before it could take place. She made him a plate of meager sandwiches and a pot of tea and set them on the table. He had said nothing-expressed no concern about where she was going-as Jenny put on her coat and slipped out the door.

The water boiled. Jenny added the tea, covered it, removed it from the fire. She thought of the other girls from the village. They would be home now, sitting down with their parents for supper, talking over the events of the day, not hiding in the trees near the beach with nothing but the sound of breaking waves and a cup of tea for company. It had made her different, older, more clever. She had been stripped of her childhood, her time of innocence, forced to confront the fact very early in life that the world could be an evil place.

God, why does he hate me so much? What have I ever done to hurt him?

Mary had done her best to explain Martin Colville's behavior. He loves you, Mary had said countless times, but he's just hurt and angry and unhappy, and he takes it out on the person he cares about most.

Jenny had tried to put herself in her father's place. She vaguely remembered the day her mother packed her things and left. She remembered her father begging and pleading with her to stay. She remembered the look on his face when she refused, remembered the sound of shattering glass, breaking dishes, the horrid things they said to each other. For many years she was not told where her mother had gone; it was simply not discussed. When Jenny asked her father, he would stalk off in a stormy silence. Mary was the one who finally told her. Her mother had fallen in love with a man from Birmingham, had an affair with him, and was living with him there now. When Jenny asked why her mother had never tried to contact her, Mary could supply no answer. To make matters worse, Mary said Jenny had become her mirror image. Jenny had no proof of this-the last memory she had of her mother was of a desperate and angry woman, eyes swollen and red from crying-and her father had destroyed all photographs of her long ago.

Jenny poured tea, holding the enamel mug close for warmth. The wind gusted, stirring the canopy of pine trees over her head. The moon appeared, followed by the first stars. Jenny could tell it would be a very cold night. She wouldn't be able to stay too long. She laid two larger pieces of wood on the fire and watched the shadows dancing on the rocks. She finished her tea and curled up in a ball, pillowing her head on her hands.

She pictured herself somewhere else, anywhere but Hampton Sands. She wanted to do something great and never come back. She was sixteen years old. Some of the older girls from the surrounding villages had gone to London and other big cities to take over the jobs left behind by the men. She could find work in a factory, wait tables in a cafe, anything…

She was beginning to drift off to sleep when she thought she heard a sound from somewhere near the water. For a moment she wondered if there really were tinkers living on the beach. Startled, Jenny got to her feet. The pine trees ended at the dunes. She walked carefully through the grove, for it had grown dark rapidly, and started up the slope of sand. She paused at the top, dune grass dancing in the wind at her feet, staring in the direction of the sound. She saw a figure dressed in an oilskin, sea boots, and a sou'wester.

Sean Dogherty.

He seemed to be stacking wood, pacing, calculating some distance. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe Sean was going crazy.

Then Jenny spotted another figure at the top of the dunes. It was Mary, just standing there in the wind, arms folded, gazing at Sean silently. Then Mary turned and quietly left without waiting for Sean.

When Sean was out of sight Jenny doused the embers, put away her things, and pedaled her bicycle home. The cottage was empty, cold, and dark when she arrived. Her father was gone, the fire long dead. There was no note explaining his whereabouts. She lay awake in bed for some time, listening to the wind, replaying the scene she had witnessed on the beach. There was something very wrong about it, she concluded. Something very wrong indeed.

"Surely there's something else we could do, Harry," Vicary said, pacing his office.

"We've done everything we can do, Alfred."

"Perhaps we should check with the RAF again."

"I just checked with the RAF."

"Anything?"

"Nothing."

"Well, call the Royal Navy-"

"I just got off the telephone with the Citadel."

"And?"

"Nothing."

"Christ!"

"You've just got to be patient."

"I'm not endowed with natural patience, Harry."

"I've noticed."

"What about-"

"I've called the ferry in Liverpool."

"Well?"

"Shut down by rough seas."

"So they won't be coming from Ireland tonight."

"Not bloody likely."

"Perhaps we're just approaching this from the wrong direction, Harry."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps we should be focusing our attention on the two agents already in Britain."

"I'm listening."

"Let's go back to the passport and immigration records."

"Christ, Alfred, they haven't changed since 1940. We've rounded up everyone we thought was a spy and interned everyone we had doubts about."

"I know, Harry. But perhaps there's something we missed."

"Such as?"

"How the hell should I know!"

"I'll get the records. It can't hurt."

"Perhaps we've run out of luck."

"Alfred, I've known a lot of lucky cops in my day."

"Yes, Harry?"

"But I've never known a lucky lazy cop."

"What are you driving at?"

"I'll get the files and make a pot of tea."

Sean Dogherty let himself out the back door of the cottage and walked along the footpath toward the barn. He wore a heavy sweater and an oilskin coat and carried a kerosene lantern. The last clouds had moved off. The sky was a mat of deep blue, thick with stars, a bright three-quarter moon. The air was bitterly cold.

A ewe bleated as he pulled open the barn door and went inside. The animal had become entangled in the fencing earlier that day. In her struggle to get free she had managed to slash her leg and tear a hole in the fence at the same time. She lay now on a bed of hay in the corner of the barn.

Dogherty switched on his radio and started changing the dressing, humming quietly to calm both their nerves. He removed the bloodied gauze, replaced it, and taped it securely in place.

He was admiring his work when the radio crackled into life. Dogherty bolted across the barn and slipped on his earphones. The message was brief. He sent back an acknowledging signal and dashed outside.

The ride to the beach took less than three minutes.

Dogherty dismounted at the end of the road and pushed the bicycle into the trees. He climbed the dunes, scrambled down the other side, and ran across the beach. The signal fires were intact, ready to be lit. In the distance he could hear the low rumble of an airplane.

He thought, Good Lord, he's actually coming!

He lit the signal fires. In a few seconds the beach was ablaze with light.

Dogherty, crouching in the dune grass, waited for the plane to appear. It descended over the beach, and a moment later a black dot leapt from the back. The parachute snapped open as the plane banked and headed out to sea.

Dogherty rose from the dune grass and ran across the beach. The German made a perfect landing, rolled, and was gathering up his black parachute by the time Dogherty arrived.

"You must be Sean Dogherty," he said in perfect public school English.

"That's right," Sean replied, startled. "And you must be the German spy."

The man frowned. "Something like that. Listen, old sport, I can manage this. Why don't you put out those bloody fires before the whole world knows we're here?"