The Unlikely Spy

14

The deer are starving this winter. They leave the woods and scratch about the meadows for food. The big buck is there, standing in the brilliant sunshine, nose pushing into the snow for a little frozen grass. They are behind a low hill, Anna on her belly, Papa crouching beside her. He is whispering instructions but she does not hear him. She needs no instruction. She has waited for this day. Imagined it. Prepared for it.

She is slipping the shells into the barrel of her rifle. It is new, the stock smooth, unscratched, and smelling of clean gun oil. It is her birthday present. Today she is fifteen.

The deer is her present too.

She had wanted to take a deer earlier but Papa had refused. "It is a very emotional thing, killing a deer," he had said, by way of explanation. "It's hard to describe. You have to experience it, and I won't let that happen until you are old enough to understand."

It is a difficult shot-one hundred and fifty meters, a brisk icy crosswind. Anna's face stings with the cold, her body is shuddering, her fingers have gone numb in her gloves. She choreographs the shot in her mind: squeeze the trigger gently, just like on the shooting range. Just like Papa taught her.

The wind gusts. She waits.

She rises onto one knee and swings the rifle into firing position. The deer, startled by the crunch of snow beneath her, raises its massive head and turns in the direction of the sound.

Quickly, she finds the buck's head in her sight, accounts for the crosswind, and fires. The bullet pierces the buck's eye, and it collapses onto the snowy meadow in a lifeless heap.

She lowers the gun, turns to Papa. She expects him to be beaming, cheering, to have his arms open to hold her and tell her how proud he is. Instead his face is a blank mask as he stares first at the dead buck, then at her.

"Your father always wanted a son, but I didn't give him one," Mother said as she lay dying of tuberculosis in the bedroom at the end of the hall. "Be what he wants you to be. Help him, Anna. Take care of him for me."

She has done everything Mother asked. She has learned to ride and shout and do everything the boys do, only better. She has traveled with Papa to his diplomatic postings. On Monday, they sail for America, where Papa will be first consul.

Anna has heard about the gangsters in America, racing around the streets in their big black cars, shooting everyone in sight. If the gangsters try to hurt Papa, she'll shoot them through the eye with her new gun.

That night they lie together in Papa's great bed, a large wood fire burning brightly on the hearth. Outside it is a blizzard. The wind howls and the trees beat against the side of the house. Anna always believes they are trying to get inside because they are cold. The fire is crackling and the smoke smells warm and wonderful. She presses her face against Papa's cheek, lays her arm across his chest.

"It was hard for me the first time I took a deer," he says, as if admitting failure. "I almost put down my gun. Why wasn't it hard for you, Anna darling?"

"I don't know, Papa, it just wasn't."

"All I could see was the damn thing's eyes staring at me. Big brown eyes. Beautiful. Then I saw the life go out of them and I felt terrible. I couldn't get the damned thing out of my mind for a week afterward."

"I didn't see the eyes."

He turns to her in the dark. "What did you see?"

She hesitates. "I saw his face."

"Whose face, darling?" He is confused. "The deer's face?"

"No, Papa, not the deer."

"Anna, darling, what on earth are you talking about?"

She wants desperately to tell him, to tell someone. If Mother were still alive she might be able to tell her. But she cannot bring herself to tell Papa. He would go insane. It would not be fair to him.

"Nothing, Papa. I'm tired now." She kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Papa. Sweet dreams."

It had been six days since Catherine Blake received the message from Hamburg. During that time she had thought long and hard about ignoring it.

Alpha was the code name of a rendezvous point in Hyde Park, a footpath through a grove of trees. She couldn't help but feel jittery about going forward with the meeting. MI5 had arrested dozens of spies since 1940. Surely some of those spies had spilled everything they knew before their appointments with the hangman.

Theoretically, this should make no difference in her case. Vogel had promised her she would be different. She would have different radio procedures, different rendezvous procedures, and different codes. Even if every other spy in England were arrested and hanged, they would have no way of getting at her.

Catherine wished she could share Vogel's confidence. He was hundreds of miles away, cut off from Britain by the Channel, flying blindly. The smallest mistake might get her arrested or killed. Like the rendezvous site, for example. It was a bitterly cold night; anyone loitering in Hyde Park would automatically come under suspicion. It was a silly mistake, so unlike Vogel. He must be under enormous pressure. It was understandable. There was an invasion coming; everyone knew it. The only question was when and where.

She was reluctant to make the rendezvous for another reason: she was frightened of being drawn into the game. She had grown comfortable-too comfortable, perhaps. Her life had assumed a structure and a routine. She had her warm flat, she had her volunteer work at the hospital, she had Vogel's money to support her. She was reluctant, at this late stage of the war, to put herself in danger. She did not regard herself as a German patriot by any means. Her cover seemed totally secure. She could wait out the war and then make her way back to Spain. Back to the grand estancia in the foothills. Back to Maria.

Catherine turned into Hyde Park. The evening traffic in Kensington Road faded to a pleasant hum.

She had two reasons for making the rendezvous.

The first was her father's safety. Catherine had not volunteered to work for the Abwehr as a spy, she had been forced to do it. Vogel's instrument of coercion was her father. He had made it clear her father would be harmed-arrested, thrown into a concentration camp, even killed-if she did not agree to go to Britain. If she refused to take an assignment now, her father's life would surely be in danger.

The second reason was more simple-she was desperately lonely. She had been cut off and isolated for six years. The normal agents were allowed to use their radios. They had some contact with Germany. She had been permitted almost no contact. She was curious; she wanted to talk to someone from her own side. She wanted to be able to drop her cover for just a few minutes, to shed the identity of Catherine Blake.

She thought, God, but I almost can't remember my real name.

She decided she would make the rendezvous.

She walked along the edge of the Serpentine, watching a fleet of ducks fishing the gaps in the ice. She followed the pathway toward the trees. The last light had faded; the sky was a mat of winking stars. One nice thing about the blackout, she thought: you could see the stars at night, even in the heart of the West End.

She reached inside her handbag and felt for the butt of her silenced pistol, a Mauser 6.35 automatic. It was there. If anything appeared out of the ordinary she would use it. She had made one vow-that she would never allow herself to be arrested. The thought of being locked up in some stinking British jail made her physically sick. She had nightmares about her own execution. She could see their laughing English faces before the hangman placed the black hood over her head and the rope around her neck. She would use her suicide pill or she would die fighting, but she would never let them touch her.

An American soldier passed in the other direction. A prostitute clung to his shoulder, was rubbing his cock and sticking her tongue in his ear. It was a common sight. The girls worked Piccadilly. Few wasted time or money on hotel rooms. Wall jobs, the soldiers called them. The girls just took their customers into alleyways or parks and raised their skirts. Some of the more naive girls thought fucking standing up would keep them from getting pregnant.

Catherine thought, Stupid English girls.

She entered the trees and waited for Vogel's agent to show.

The afternoon train from Hunstanton arrived at Liverpool Street Station a half hour late. Horst Neumann collected his small leather grip from the luggage rack and joined the line of passengers spilling onto the platform. The station was chaos. Knots of weary travelers wandered the terminus like victims of a natural disaster, faces blank, waiting for hopelessly delayed trains. Soldiers slept wherever they liked, heads pillowed on kit bags. A few uniformed railway policemen meandered about, trying to keep order. All the porters were women. Neumann stepped onto the platform. Small, agile, bright-eyed, he sliced his way through the dense crowd.

The men at the exit had AUTHORITY written all over them. They wore rumpled suits and bowler hats. He wondered if they were looking for him. There was no way they could have a description. Instinctively, he reached inside his jacket and felt for the butt of his pistol. It was there, tucked in the waistband of his trousers. He also felt for his billfold in his breast pocket. The name on his identity card read James Porter. His cover was a traveling pharmaceutical salesman. He brushed past the two men and joined the crowd jostling along Bishopsgate Road.

The journey, except for the inevitable delay, had gone smoothly. He had shared a compartment with a group of young soldiers. For a time they had eyed him malevolently while he read his newspapers. Neumann guessed any healthy-looking young man not in uniform would be subjected to a certain amount of contempt. He told them he had been wounded at Dunkirk and brought back to England half dead aboard an oceangoing tug-one of the "little ships." The soldiers asked Neumann to join them in a game of cards, and he beat the pants off them.

The street was pitch dark, the only light provided by the shaded headlamps of the evening traffic working its way along the road and the pale blackout torches carried by many of the pedestrians. He felt as if he were in the midst of a child's game, trying to perform a ridiculously simple task while blindfolded. Twice he smashed straight into a pedestrian coming in the opposite direction. Once he collided with something cold and hard and started to apologize before noticing it was a lamppost.

He had to laugh. London certainly had changed since his last visit.

He was born Nigel Fox in London in 1919 to a German mother and an English father. When his father died in 1927, his mother returned to Germany and settled in Dusseldorf. A year later she remarried-a wealthy manufacturer named Erich Neumann, a stern disciplinarian who wasn't about to have a stepson named Nigel who spoke German with an English accent. He immediately changed the boy's name to Horst, allowed him to take his family name, and enrolled him in one of the toughest military schools in the country. Horst was miserable. The other boys teased him because of his poor German. Small, easily bullied, he came home most weekends with blackened eyes and split lips. His mother grew worried; Horst had become quiet and withdrawn. Erich thought it was good for him.

But when Horst turned fourteen his life changed. At an all-comers track meet he entered the 1,500 meters in his school shorts and no shoes. He finished well under five minutes, stunning for a boy with no training. A coach from the national federation had watched the race. He encouraged Horst to train and convinced his school to make special provisions for the boy.

Horst came alive. Freed from the drudgery of the school's physical education classes, he spent afternoons running through the countryside and the mountains. He loved being alone, away from the other boys. He was never happier. He quickly became one of the best junior track athletes in the country and a source of pride for the school. He joined the Hitler Jugend-the Hitler Youth. Boys who had picked on him years earlier suddenly were vying for his attention. In 1936, he was invited to attend the Olympic Games in Berlin. He watched the American Jesse Owens stun the world by winning four gold medals. He met Adolf Hitler at a reception for Hitler Youth and even shook his hand. He was so excited he telephoned home to tell his mother. Erich was immensely proud. Sitting in the grandstand Horst dreamed of 1944, when he would be old enough and fast enough to compete for Germany.

The war would change all that.

He joined the Wehrmacht early in 1939. His physical fitness and lone-wolf attitude brought him to the attention of the Fallschirmjager, the paratroopers. He was sent to paratroop school at Stendhal and jumped into Poland on the first day of the war. France, Crete, and Russia followed. He had his Knight's Cross by the end of 1942.

Paris would end his jumping days. Late one evening he went into a small bar for a brandy. A group of SS officers had taken over the back room for a private party. Halfway through his drink, Neumann heard a scream from the back room. The Frenchman behind the bar froze, too terrified to go investigate. Neumann did it for him. When he pushed back the door he saw a French girl on the table, arms and legs pinned down by SS men. A major was raping her; another was beating her with a belt. Neumann went in on the run and delivered a brutal blow to the major's face. His head struck the corner of a table; he never regained consciousness.

The other SS men dragged him into an alley, beat him savagely, and left him for dead. He spent three months in a hospital recovering. His head injuries were so severe he was declared unfit to jump. Because of his fluent English he was assigned to an army intelligence listening post in northern France, where he spent his days sitting before a radio receiver in a cramped, claustrophobic hut, monitoring wireless communications originating across the Channel in England. It was drudgery.

Then came the man from the Abwehr, Kurt Vogel. He was gaunt and tired, and under different circumstances Neumann might have thought he was an artist or an intellectual. He said he was looking for qualified men willing to go to Britain and conduct espionage. He said he would double Neumann's Wehrmacht pay. Neumann wasn't interested because of the money, he was bored out of his skull. He accepted on the spot. That night he left France and returned to Berlin with Vogel.

A week before coming to Britain, Neumann was taken to a farmhouse in the district of Dahlem just outside Berlin for a week of briefings and intense preparation. Mornings were spent in the barn, where Vogel had rigged a jump platform for Neumann to practice. A live jump was deemed out of the question for security reasons. He also brushed up his skills with a handgun, which were impressive to begin with, and silent killing. Afternoons were given over to the essence of field work: dead drops, rendezvous procedures, codes, and radio. At times the briefings were handled by Vogel alone. At other times he brought his assistant, Werner Ulbricht. Neumann playfully referred to him as Watson, and Ulbricht accepted it with an uncharacteristic relish. In the late afternoons, with the winter light dying over the gentle snowy landscape of the farm, Neumann was allowed forty-five minutes for running. For three days he was permitted to go alone. But on the fourth day, his head filling with Vogel's secrets, a jeep shadowed him from a distance.

Evenings were Vogel's private preserve. After a group supper in the farmhouse kitchen, Vogel would lead Neumann into the study and lecture him by the fire. He never used notes, for Vogel, Neumann could see, had the gift of memory. Vogel told him of Sean Dogherty and the drop procedure. He told him of an agent named Catherine Blake. He told him of an American officer named Peter Jordan.

Each night Vogel would cover old ground before adding another level of detail. Despite the informality of the country atmosphere, his wardrobe never changed: dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His voice was as annoying as a rusty hinge, yet it held Neumann with its intensity and singleness of purpose. On the sixth night, pleased with his pupil's progress, Vogel actually permitted himself a brief smile, which he quickly covered with his right hand, embarrassed by his dreadful teeth.

Enter Hyde Park from the north, Vogel had reminded him during their final meeting. From Bayswater Road. Which Neumann did now. Follow the pathway to the trees overlooking the lake. Make one pass to make certain the place is clean. Make your approach on the second pass. Let her decide whether it will continue. She will know if it is safe. She is very good.

The small man appeared on the pathway. He wore a wool overcoat and a brimmed hat. He walked briskly past without looking at her. She wondered if she was losing her power to attract men.

She stood in the trees, waiting. The rules for the rendezvous were specific. If the contact does not appear exactly on time, leave and come back the following day. She decided to wait another minute, then leave.

She heard the footsteps. It was the same man who had passed her a moment earlier. He nearly bumped into her in the dark.

"I say, I do seem to be a bit lost," he said, in an accent she couldn't quite place. "Can you point me in the direction of Park Lane?"

Catherine looked at him carefully. He wore an all-weather smile, his eyes burning bright blue beneath the brim of his hat.

She pointed west. "It's in that direction."

"Thank you." He started to walk away, then turned around. "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place?"

"He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully."

He smiled and said, "Catherine Blake, as I live and breathe. Why don't we go somewhere warm where we can talk?"

Catherine reached inside her purse and removed her blackout torch.

"Do you have one of these?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, no."

"That's a stupid mistake. And stupid mistakes like that could get us both killed."

15

While Harry Dalton was still on the Met he was considered a meticulous, shrewd, and relentless investigator who believed no lead, no matter how trivial, should be discarded. His big break came in 1936. Two young girls had vanished from an East End playground, and Harry was assigned to the crack team of officers investigating the case. After three sleepless days of digging, Harry arrested a drifter named Spencer Thomas. Harry handled the interrogation. At daybreak he led a search party to a secluded spot along the Thames Estuary, where Thomas had told him he would find the mutilated bodies of the girls. In the days that followed he also found the bodies of a prostitute in Gravesend, a waitress in Bristol, and a housewife in Sheffield. Spencer Thomas was locked up in an asylum for the criminally insane. Harry was promoted to detective-inspector.

Nothing in his professional experience had prepared him for a day as frustrating as this. He was looking for a German agent but he didn't have a single clue or lead. His only recourse was to telephone local police forces and ask for reports of anything out of the ordinary, any crime that might be committed by a spy on the move. He couldn't tell them he was looking for a spy; that would be a breach of security. He was fishing, and Harry Dalton hated fishing.

The conversation Harry had with a police officer in Evesham was typical.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Harry Dalton."

"Calling from where?"

"The War Office in London."

"I see. What would you be wanting with me?"

"I want to know whether you've had any reports of crimes that might be committed by someone on the run."

"Such as?"

"Such as stolen cars, stolen bicycles, stolen ration coupons, petrol. Use your imagination."

"I see."

"Well?"

"We did have a report of a stolen bicycle."

"Really! When?"

"This morning."

"That could be something."

"Bicycles are bloody valuable these days. I had an old wreck rusting in my shed. Took it out, cleaned it up a bit, sold it to a Yank corporal for ten quid. Ten quid! Can you believe it? That thing wasn't worth ten shillings!"

"That's interesting. What about the stolen bicycle?"

"Hold on a minute-what did you say your name was?"

"Harry."

"Harry. Hold on a minute, Harry… George, did we hear anything more about that missing bicycle up on Sheep Street? Yeah, that one… What do you mean he found it? Where the hell was it?… In the middle of the pasture? How the hell did it get there?… He did! Christ Almighty! You with me, Harry?"

"I'm still here."

"Sorry, false alarm."

"That's all right. Thanks for looking into it."

"No problem."

"If you hear of anything-"

"You'll be the first to know, Harry."

"Cheers."

In the late afternoon he had fielded dozens of telephone calls from policemen in the countryside, one more bizarre than the next. An officer from Bridgewater called to report a broken window.

Harry said, "Look like a breaking and entering?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because it was the stained glass window at the church."

"Right. Keep your eyes open."

The police in Skegness reported someone trying to get into a pub after hours.

Harry said, "The man I'm looking for may not be familiar with English licensing laws."

"I'll look into it a little harder then."

"Good, keep in touch."

He called back twenty minutes later.

"It was just a local woman looking for her husband. Terrible drunk, I'm afraid."

"Damn!"

"Sorry, Harry. Didn't mean to get your hopes up."

"You did-but thanks for checking it out."

Harry looked at his watch: four o'clock, shift change in Registry. Grace would be coming on duty. He thought, Maybe I can make something out of this day. He took the lift down to Registry and found her pushing a metal cart brimming with files. She had a shock of short, white-blond hair, and her cheap, bloodied wartime lipstick made her look as if she were tarted up for a man. She wore a schoolboy's gray woolen sweater and a black skirt that was a little too short. Her heavy stockings could not hide the shape of her long, athletic legs.

She spotted Harry and smiled warmly. Within the world of Registry, Grace was the exception. Vernon Kell, the founder of the Service, believed only members of the aristocracy or relatives of MI5 officers could be trusted for such sensitive work. As a result, Registry was always populated with a staff of rather beautiful debutantes. But Grace was a middle-class girl, the daughter of a school-teacher. She spotted Harry and smiled warmly. Then, with only a sideways glance of her bright green eyes, she told him to meet her in one of the small side rooms. She joined him a moment later, closed the door, and kissed his cheek.

"Hello, Harry darling. How have you been?"

"Fine, Grace. Good to see you."

It started in 1940 during a night raid over London. They sheltered together in the underground and in the morning, when the all clear sounded, she had taken him to her flat and to her bed. She was attractive in an unconventional way and a passionate, uninhibited lover-a pleasant, convenient escape from the pressure of the office. For Grace, Harry was someone kind and gentle who would help pass the time until her husband came back from the army.

They could have carried on that way the entire war. But three months into the affair Harry was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. The poor sod is fighting for his life in North Africa, and I'm here in London bedding his wife. The feelings provoked a deeper crisis for him. He was a young man; maybe he should be in the army risking his life instead of chasing relatively harmless spies around Britain. He told himself MI5's work was vital to the war effort-indispensable-but the nagging feelings of doubt persisted. What would I do on the battlefield? Would I pick up my gun and fight or would I cower in a foxhole? He told Grace about his feelings the next night when he broke off the affair. They made love one last time, her kisses salty with tears. Bloody war, she kept saying. Lousy, bloody, awful war.

"I need a favor, Grace," Harry said, voice low.

"Listen to you, Harry. You don't call, you don't write, you don't bring me flowers. Then you pop round and say you need a favor." She smiled and kissed him again. "All right, what do you need?"

"I need to see the access list on a file."

Her face darkened. "Come on, Harry. You know I can't do that."

"An Abwehr man named Vogel-Kurt Vogel."

A look of recognition flashed across her face, then dissipated.

"Grace, I don't need to tell you we're working a very important case."

"I know you're working on an important case, Harry. The whole department is buzzing about it."

"When Vicary came down to pull Vogel's file, it was missing. He went to see Jago, and two minutes later he had the bloody thing in his hand. Jago spun some yarn about it being mislaid."

She was angrily digging through the files on the cart. She grabbed a bunch and began replacing them on the shelves.

"I know all about it, Harry."

"How do you know?"

"Because he blamed it on me. He wrote a letter of reprimand and put it in my file, the bastard."

"Who blamed you?"

"Jago!" she hissed.

"Why?"

"To cover his arse, that's why."

She was digging through the files again. Harry reached out and took her hands in his to make her stop. "Grace, I need to see that access list."

"The access list won't tell you anything. The person who had that file before Vicary doesn't leave a trail."

"Grace, please. I'm begging."

"I like it when you beg, Harry."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Why don't you come over for some dinner one night?" She dragged the tip of her finger over the back of Harry's hand. It was black from sorting files. "I miss your company. We'll talk, have a few laughs, nothing else."

"I'd like that, Grace." It was the truth. He missed her very much.

"If you tell anyone where you got this, Harry, so help me God-"

"It stays between you and me."

"Not even Vicary," she insisted. Harry put his hand over his heart. "Not even Vicary." Grace picked up another handful of files, then looked up at him. With her bloodred lips she mouthed the initials BB.

"How is it possible you don't have a single lead?" Basil Boothby said as Vicary sank down into the deep overstuffed couch. Sir Basil had demanded nightly updates on the progress of the investigation. Vicary, knowing Boothby's passion for having things in writing, suggested a concise note, but Sir Basil wanted to be briefed in person.

Tonight, Boothby had an engagement. He had mumbled something about "the Americans" to explain the fact he was dressing in his formal wear when Vicary was shown into the office. While he spoke his big paw was engaged in an abortive effort to stuff a gold cuff link through the starched cuff of his shirt. Sir Basil had a valet to assist him with such tedious tasks at home.

Vicary's briefing was suspended a moment while Boothby summoned his pretty secretary to help him dress. It gave him a moment to process the information Harry had given him. It was Sir Basil who had pulled Vogel's file. He tried to remember their first conversation. What was it Boothby had said? Registry may have something on him.

Boothby's secretary slipped quietly out. Vicary resumed his briefing. They had men watching every rail station in London. Their hands were tied because they had no description of the agents they were supposed to be looking for. Harry Dalton had compiled a list of every known location used by German agents for rendezvous points. Vicary had men watching as many of those as he could.

"I'd give you more men, Alfred, but there aren't any," Boothby said. "The watchers are all pulling double and triple shifts. The head of the watchers is complaining to me that you're running them into the ground. The cold is killing them. Half of them have been struck down by the flu."

"I'm sympathetic to the plight of the watchers, Sir Basil. I'm using them as judiciously as possible."

Boothby lit a cigarette and sipped his gin and bitters while pacing the length of the room. "We have three German agents loose in the country outside our control. I don't need to tell you how serious this is. If one of those agents tries to contact one of our doubles, we're going to be in trouble. The whole Double Cross apparatus will be in jeopardy."

"My guess is they won't try to contact any other agents."

"Why not?"

"Because I think Vogel is running his own show. I think we're dealing with a separate network of agents we never knew about."

"That's just a hunch, Alfred. We need to deal with the facts."

"Ever read Vogel's file?" Vicary said, as carelessly as possible.

"No."

And you're a liar, Vicary thought. "Judging by the way this affair has unfolded, I'd say Vogel has kept a network of sleeper agents inside Britain, on ice, since before the beginning of the war. If I had to guess, the primary agent is operating in London, the subagent somewhere in the countryside, where he could take in an agent on short notice. The agent who arrived last night is almost certainly here to brief the lead agent on his assignment. For all we know, they're meeting right now as we speak. And we're falling further and further behind."

"Interesting, Alfred, but it's all based on guesswork."

"Educated guesswork, Sir Basil. In the absence of hard, provable facts, I'm afraid that's our only recourse." Vicary hesitated, aware of the response his next suggestion was likely to generate. "In the meantime, I think we should schedule a meeting with General Betts to brief him on developments."

Boothby's face sagged into an angry frown. Brigadier General Thomas Betts was the deputy chief of intelligence at SHAEF. Tall, bearlike, Betts had one of the most unenviable jobs in London-making sure none of the several hundred American and British officers who knew the secret of Overlord gave that secret, intentionally or unintentionally, to the enemy.

"That's premature, Alfred."

"Premature? You said it yourself, Sir Basil. We have three German spies on the loose."

"I've got to go down the hall and brief the director-general in a moment. If I suggest to him that we broadcast our failures to the Americans, he will fall on me from a very great height."

"I'm sure the DG won't be too hard on you, Sir Basil." Vicary knew that Boothby had convinced the director-general that he was indispensable. "Besides, it's hardly a failure."

Boothby stopped pacing. "What would you call it?"

"A temporary setback."

Boothby snorted and crushed out his cigarette. "I will not permit you to tarnish the reputation of this department, Alfred. I won't have it."

"Perhaps there's something else you should consider besides the reputation of this department, Sir Basil."

"What's that?"

Vicary struggled out of the soft, deep couch. "If the spies succeed, we may very well lose the war."

"Well, then, do something, Alfred."

"Thank you, Sir Basil. That's certainly sound advice."

16

From Hyde Park they took a taxi into Earl's Court. They paid off the driver a quarter mile from her flat. During the short walk they doubled back twice, and Catherine made a bogus call from a phone box. They were not being tailed. Her landlady, Mrs. Hodges, was in the hall as they arrived. Catherine threaded her arm through Neumann's. Mrs. Hodges shot her a glance of disapproval as they walked upstairs.

Catherine was reluctant to take him to her flat. She had jealously protected its whereabouts and refused to provide the address to Berlin. The last thing she needed was some agent on the run from MI5 to come pounding on her door in the middle of the night. But meeting in public was out of the question; they had much to discuss, and doing it in a cafe or a railway station was too dangerous.

She watched Neumann as he led himself on a tour of her flat. She could tell by the precise walk and economical gestures that he had been a soldier once. His English was flawless. Clearly, Vogel had chosen him carefully. At least he wasn't sending some rank amateur to brief her. He went to the drawing room window, parted the curtains, and gazed down into the street.

"Even if they're out there, you'll never spot them," Catherine said as she sat down.

"I know-but it makes me feel better to look." He came away from the window. "It's been a long day. I could use a cup of tea."

"Everything you need is in the kitchen. Help yourself."

Neumann set water on the stove to boil, then came back into the room.

"What's your name?" she asked him. "Your real name."

"Horst Neumann."

"You're a soldier. At least you used to be one. What's your rank?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

She smiled. "I outrank you, by the way."

"Yes, I know-Major."

"What's your cover name?"

"James Porter."

"Let me see your identification."

He handed it across. She examined it carefully. It was an excellent forgery. She gave it back to him. "It's good," she said. "But show it only if it is absolutely necessary. What's your cover?"

"I was wounded at Dunkirk and invalided out of the army. I'm a traveling salesman now."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Norfolk coast-a village called Hampton Sands. Vogel has an agent there named Sean Dogherty. He's an IRA sympathizer who runs a small farm."

"How did you enter the country?"

"Parachute."

"Very impressive," she said genuinely. "And Dogherty took you in? He was waiting for you?"

"Yes."

"Vogel contacted him by radio?"

"I assume so, yes."

"That means MI-Five is looking for you."

"I think I spotted two of their men at Liverpool Street."

"It makes sense. They'd certainly be watching the stations." She lit a cigarette. "Your English is excellent. Where did you learn it?"

While he told her the story Catherine looked at him carefully for the first time. He was small and sparingly built; he might have been an athlete once, a tennis player or a runner. His hair was dark, his eyes a penetrating blue. He was obviously intelligent-not like some of the imbeciles she had seen at the Abwehr spy school in Berlin. She doubted he had been behind enemy lines before as an agent, yet he showed no sign of nerves. She had a few more questions before she would listen to what he had to say.

"How did you end up in this line of work?"

Neumann told her the story: that he had been a member of the Fallschirmjager, that he had seen action in more places than he could remember. He told her about Paris. About his transfer to the Funkabwehr eavesdropping unit in northern France. And about his eventual recruitment by Kurt Vogel.

"Our Kurt is very good at finding work for the restless," Catherine said, when he had finished. "So what does Vogel have in mind for me?"

"One assignment, then out. Back to Germany."

The kettle screamed. Neumann went into the kitchen and busied himself with the tea. One assignment, then out. Back to Germany. And with a highly capable former paratrooper to help her make her escape. She was impressed. She had always assumed the worst: when the war ended she would be abandoned in Britain and forced to fend for herself. The British and the Americans-when the inevitable victory came-would pore over captured Abwehr files. They would find her name, realize she had never been arrested, and come after her. That was the other reason she had withheld so much information from Vogel; she didn't want to leave a trail in Berlin for her enemies to follow. But Vogel obviously wanted her back in Germany, and he had taken steps to make sure that happened.

Neumann came back into the drawing room with a pot of tea and two mugs. He placed the things on a table and sat down again.

Catherine said, "What's your job, besides briefing me on my assignment?"

"Whatever you need, basically. I'm your courier, your support agent, and your radio operator. Vogel wants you to continue to stay off the air. He's convinced it's not safe. The only time you're to use your radio is if you need me. You contact Vogel with a prearranged signal, and Vogel will contact me."

She nodded, then said, "And when it's all over? How are we supposed to get out of Britain? And please don't say something heroic like steal a boat and sail back to France. Because it's not possible."

"Of course not. Vogel has arranged first-class passage for you aboard a U-boat."

"Which one?"

"U-509."

"Where?"

"The North Sea."

"It's big. Where in the North Sea?"

"Spurn Head, off the Lincolnshire coast."

"I've lived here for five years, Lieutenant Neumann. I know where Spurn Head is. How are we supposed to get to the U-boat?"

"Vogel has a boat and a skipper waiting at a dock along the River Humber. When it's time to leave I contact him and he takes us out to the submarine."

She thought, So Vogel has a built-in escape hatch he's never told me about.

Catherine sipped her tea, inspecting Neumann over the brim of the mug. It was remotely possible he was an MI5 man posing as a German agent. She could play silly games-like testing his German or asking him about some little-known Berlin cafe-but if he truly was MI5 he would be smart enough to avoid an obvious trap. He knew the patter, he knew a great deal about Vogel, and his story seemed credible. She decided to let it continue. As Neumann was about to resume speaking, the air raid sirens wailed.

"Do we need to take this seriously?" Neumann asked.

"Did you see the building behind this one?"

Neumann had seen it, a pile of broken brick and smashed timber. "Where's the nearest shelter?"

"Around the corner." She smiled at him. "Welcome back to London, Lieutenant Neumann."

It was early evening the following day when Neumann's train drew into Hunstanton Station. Sean Dogherty was smoking anxiously on the platform as he stepped off the train.

"How did it go?" Dogherty asked, as they walked to his truck.

"Went off without a hitch."

Dogherty drove uncomfortably fast over the rolling, crumbling, single-lane track. It was a rattletrap van, badly in need of an overhaul by the sound of it. Blackout shades shrouded the headlamps. A dribble of pale yellow light tried vainly to illuminate the roadway. Neumann had the sensation of walking through a strange darkened house with only a match for light. They passed through bleak darkened villages-Holme, Thornham, Titchwell-no lights burning, shops and cottages tightly shuttered, no sign of human habitation. Dogherty was telling him about his day, but Neumann gradually tuned him out, thinking about last night.

They had rushed to a tube station like everyone else and waited three hours on the dank platform for the all clear to sound. She slept for a time, allowing her head to fall against his shoulder. He wondered if it was the first time she had felt safe in six years. He stared at her in the darkness. A remarkably beautiful woman but there was a distant sadness-a childhood wound, perhaps, inflicted by a careless adult. She stirred in her sleep, troubled by dreams. He touched the pile of curls that lay spread across his shoulder. When the all clear sounded she awoke like all soldiers in enemy territory-quickly, eyes suddenly wide, hand reaching for the nearest weapon. In her case it was the handbag, where Neumann assumed she kept a gun or a knife.

They talked until dawn. Actually, he had talked and she had listened. She never spoke except to correct him when he had made a mistake or contradicted something he had said hours earlier. She obviously had a powerful mind, capable of storing immense amounts of information. No wonder Vogel had so much respect for her abilities.

A gray dawn was spreading over London when Neumann slipped out of her flat. He had moved like a man leaving his mistress, sneaking small glances over his shoulder, searching the faces of passersby for traces of suspicion. For three hours he weaved through London in a cold drizzle, making sudden course changes, getting on and off buses, looking at reflections in windows. He decided he was not being followed and started back to Liverpool Street Station.

On the train he pillowed his head on his hands and tried to sleep. Don't fall under her spell, Vogel had playfully warned on their last day together at the farm. Keep to a safe distance. She has dark places where you don't want to go.

Neumann pictured her in her flat, listening in the faint light as he told her of Peter Jordan and what she was expected to do. It was the unnerving stillness about her that struck him most, the way the hands lay folded in the lap, the way the head and shoulders never seemed to move. Only the eyes, casting around the room, back and forth across his face, up and down his body. Like searchlights. For a moment he allowed himself to entertain a fantasy that she desired him. But now, as Hampton Sands vanished into the gloom behind them and the Dogherty cottage appeared before them, Neumann came to a disturbing conclusion. Catherine was not looking at him that way because she found him attractive, she was deciding how best to kill him if she ever needed to.

Neumann had given her the letter as he left that morning. She had placed it aside, too terrified to read it. Now she opened it, hands trembling, and read it as she lay in bed.

My dearest Anna,

I am relieved to hear you are well and safe. Since you have left me all light has gone from my life. I pray that this war will end soon so we can be together again. Good night, sweet dreams, little one.

Your adoring Father

When she finished reading it she carried the letter into the kitchen, touched it to the gas flame, and tossed it into the sink. It flared a moment, then quickly died away. She ran the tap and washed the black ashes down the drain. She suspected it was a forgery-that Vogel had concocted it in order to keep her in line. Her father, she feared, was dead. She went back to bed, lying awake in the soft gray light of morning, listening to the rain drumming against her window. Thinking of her father, thinking of Vogel.

17

"Congratulations, Alfred. Come inside. I'm sorry it had to happen this way, but you've just become a rather wealthy man." Edward Kenton thrust out his hand as if he were waiting for Vicary to impale himself on it. Vicary took the hand and shook it weakly before brushing past Kenton into the drawing room of his aunt's cottage. "Damned cold outside," Kenton was saying as Vicary surveyed the room. He hadn't been here since the war, but nothing had changed. "I hope you don't mind, but I've made a fire. The place was like an icebox when I arrived. There's tea as well. And real milk. I don't suppose you see much of that in London these days."

Vicary removed his coat while Kenton went into the kitchen. It wasn't really a cottage-that was what Matilda had insisted on calling it. It was a rather large home of Cotswold limestone, with spectacular gardens surrounded by a high wall. She died of a massive stroke the night Boothby assigned him the case. Vicary had planned to attend the funeral but he was summoned by Churchill that morning, after Bletchley Park decoded the German radio signals. He felt horrible about missing the services. Matilda had virtually raised Vicary after his own mother died when he was just twelve. They had remained the best of friends. She was the only person he had told about his assignment to MI5. What do you do exactly, Alfred? I catch German spies, Aunt Matilda. Oh, good for you, Alfred!

French doors overlooked the gardens, dead with winter. Sometimes I catch spies, Aunt Matilda, he thought. Sometimes they get the better of me.

That morning Bletchley Park had forwarded Vicary a decoded message from an agent in Britain. It said the rendezvous had been successful and the agent had accepted the assignment. Vicary was growing discouraged about his chances of catching the spies. Things had worsened that morning. Two men were observed meeting in Leicester Square and brought in for questioning. The older of the two turned out to be a senior Home Office clerk; the younger man was his lover. Boothby had blown a fuse.

"How was the drive?" Kenton asked from the kitchen over the tinkle of china and running water.

"Fine," Vicary said. Boothby had reluctantly permitted him to have a Rover and a driver from Transport.

"I can't remember the last time I took a relaxing drive through the country," Kenton said. "But I suppose petrol and motorcars are some of the fringe benefits of your new job."

Kenton came into the room with a tray of tea. He was tall-as tall as Boothby-but with none of the bulk or physical agility. He wore round spectacles, too small for his face, and a thin mustache that looked as though it had been put there with a woman's eyebrow pencil. He set the tea down on the table in front of the couch, poured milk into the cups as though it were liquid gold, then added the tea.

"My goodness, Alfred, how long has it been?"

Twenty-five years, Vicary thought. Edward Kenton had been friends with Helen. They had even dated a few times after Helen broke off the relationship with Vicary. By coincidence he became Matilda's solicitor ten years earlier. Vicary and Kenton had spoken by telephone several times over the past few years as Matilda grew too old to manage alone, but it was the first time they had seen each other face-to-face. Vicary wished he could conclude his dead aunt's affairs without the specter of Helen hanging over the proceedings.

Kenton said, "You've been assigned to the War Office, I hear."

"That's right," Vicary said and swallowed half his cup of tea. It was delicious-much better than the swill they served in the canteen.

"What do you do exactly?"

"Oh, I work for a very dull department doing this and that." Vicary sat down. "I'm sorry, Edward. I hate to rush things along, but I really have to be heading back to London."

Kenton sat down opposite Vicary and fished a batch of papers from his black leather briefcase. Licking the tip of his slender forefinger, he guardedly turned to a suitable page. "Ah, here we are. I drew up this will myself five years ago," he said. "She spread some money and other properties among your cousins, but she left the bulk of her estate to you."

"I had no idea."

"She's left you the house and quite a large amount of money. She was frugal. She spent carefully and invested wisely." Kenton turned the papers around so Vicary could read them. "Here's what's coming to you."

Vicary was stunned; he had no idea. Missing her funeral over a couple of German spies seemed even more obscene. Something must have shown on his face because Kenton said, "It's a shame you couldn't make it to the funeral, Alfred. It really was a lovely service. Half the county was there."

"I wanted to be here but something came up."

"I have a few papers for you to sign to take possession of the cottage and the money. If you'll give me an account number in London, I can move the money and close her bank accounts."

Vicary spent the next few minutes silently signing his name to a pile of legal and financial documents. At the last one Kenton looked up and said, "Done."

"Is the telephone still working?"

"Yes. I used it myself before you arrived."

The telephone was on Matilda's writing table in the drawing room. Vicary picked up the receiver and looked at Kenton. "Edward, if you wouldn't mind, it's official."

Kenton forced a smile. "Say no more. I'll clear away the dishes."

Something about the exchange warmed the vindictive corners of Vicary's heart. The operator came on the line, and he gave her the number of MI5 headquarters in London. It took a few moments to get through. A department operator answered and connected Vicary to Harry Dalton.

Harry answered, his mouth full of food.

"What's the fare today?" Vicary asked.

"They claim it's vegetable stew."

"Any news?"

"I think so, actually."

Vicary's heart leapt.

"I've been going over the immigration lists one more time, just to see if we missed anything." The immigration lists were the meat and potatoes of MI5's contest with Germany's spies. In September 1939, while Vicary was still on the faculty at University College, MI5 had used immigration and passport records as the primary tool in a massive roundup of spies and Nazi sympathizers. Aliens were classified in three categories: Category C aliens were allowed complete freedom; Category B aliens were subject to certain restrictions-some weren't allowed to own automobiles or boats and limits were placed on their movement within the country; Category A aliens, those deemed to be a threat to security, were interned. Anyone who had entered the country before the war and could not be accounted for was assumed to be a spy and hunted down. Germany's espionage networks were rolled up and smashed, virtually overnight.

"A Dutch woman named Christa Kunst entered the country in November 1938 at Dover," Harry continued. "A year later her body was discovered in a shallow grave in a field near a village called Whitchurch."

"What's unusual about that?"

"The thing just doesn't feel right to me. The body was badly decomposed when it was pulled out of the ground. The face and skull had been crushed. All the teeth were missing. They used the passport to make the identification; it was conveniently buried with the body. It sounds too neat to me."

"Where's the passport now?"

"The Home Office has it. I've sent a courier up to collect it. It has a photograph. They say it got roughed up a bit while it was in the ground, but it's probably worth looking at."

"Good, Harry. I'm not sure this woman's death has anything to do with the case, but at least it's a lead."

"Right. How did the meeting go with the lawyer, by the way?"

"Oh, just a few papers to sign," Vicary lied. He felt suddenly awkward about his newfound financial independence. "I'm leaving now. I should be back in the office late this afternoon."

Vicary rang off as Kenton came back into the drawing room. "Well, I think that about does it." He handed Vicary a large brown envelope. "All the papers are there as well as the keys. I've included the name of the gardener and his address. He'll be happy to serve as caretaker."

They put on their coats, locked up the cottage, and went outside. Vicary's car was in the drive.

"Can I drop you anywhere, Edward?"

Vicary was relieved when he declined the offer.

"I spoke to Helen the other day," Kenton said suddenly.

Vicary thought: Oh, good heavens.

"She says she sees you from time to time in Chelsea."

Vicary wondered whether Helen had told Kenton about the afternoon in 1940 when he had stared into her passing car like some silly schoolboy. Mortified, Vicary opened the door of the car, absently beating his pockets for his half-moon glasses.

"She asked me to say hello, so I'm saying it. Hello."

"Thank you." Vicary got inside.

"She also says she'd like to see you sometime. Do some catching up."

"That would be lovely," Vicary said, lying.

"Well, marvelous. She's coming to London next week. She'd love to have lunch with you."

Vicary felt his stomach tighten.

"One o'clock at the Connaught, a week from tomorrow," Kenton said. "I'm supposed to speak with her later today. Shall I tell her you'll be there?"

The back of the Rover was cold as a meat locker. Vicary sat on the big leather seat, legs covered in a traveling rug, watching the countryside of Gloucestershire sweep past his window. A red fox crossed the road, then darted back into the hedge. Drowsy fat pheasants pulled at the cropped remains of a snowy cornfield, feather coats puffed out against the cold. Bare tree limbs scratched at the clear sky. A small valley opened before him. Fields stretched like a rumpled patchwork quilt into the distance. The sun was sinking into a sky splashed with watercolor shades of purple and orange.

He was angry with Helen. His spiteful half wanted to believe his job with British Intelligence somehow made him more interesting to her. His rational half told him he and Helen had managed to part as friends and a quiet lunch might be very pleasant. At the very least it would be a welcome diversion from the pressure of the case. He thought, What are you so afraid of? That you might remember you were actually happy for the two years she was part of your life?

He pushed Helen from his mind. Harry's news intrigued him. By instinct he attacked it like a problem of history. His area of expertise was nineteenth-century Europe-he won critical acclaim for his book on the collapse of the balance of power after the Congress of Vienna-but Vicary had a secret passion for the history and myth of ancient Greece. He was intrigued by the fact that much scholarship on the age had to be based on guesswork and conjecture; the immense passage of time and lack of a clear historical record made that necessary. Why, for example, did Pericles launch the Peloponnesian War with Sparta that eventually led to the destruction of Athens? Why not accept the demands of his more powerful rival and revoke the Megarian decree? Was he driven by fear of the superior armies of Sparta? Did he believe war was inevitable? Did he embark on a disastrous foreign adventure to relieve pressure at home?

Now Vicary asked similar questions about his rival in Berlin. Kurt Vogel.

What was Vogel's goal? Vicary believed Vogel's goal was to build a network of elite sleeper agents at the outset of the war and leave them in place until the climactic moment of the confrontation. In order to succeed, great care would have to be given to the way the agent was inserted into the country. Obviously, Vogel had done this; the mere fact that MI5 had no knowledge of the agent until now confirmed it. Vogel would have to assume immigration and passport-control records would be used to find his agents; Vicary would certainly assume that if the roles were reversed. But what if the person who entered the country was dead? There would be no search. It was brilliant. But there was one problem-it required a body. Was it possible they actually murdered someone to trade places with Christa Kunst?

Germany's spies, as a rule, were not killers. Most were money-grubbers, adventurers, and petty Fascists, poorly trained and financed. But if Kurt Vogel had established a network of elite agents, they would be better motivated, more disciplined, and almost certainly more ruthless. Was it possible one of those highly trained and ruthless agents was a woman? Vicary had handled only one case involving a woman-a young German girl who managed to get a job as a maid in the home of a British admiral.

"Stop in the next village," Vicary said to the Wren driving the car. "I need to use the telephone."

The next village was called Aston Magna-a hamlet really, no shops, just a clump of cottages bisected by a pair of narrow lanes. An old man was standing along the roadway with his dog.

Vicary wound down the window and said, "Hello."

"Hello." The man wore Wellington boots and a lumpy tweed coat that looked at least a hundred years old. The dog had three legs.

"Is there a telephone in the village?" Vicary asked.

The man shook his head. Vicary swore the dog was shaking its head too. "No one's bothered to get one yet."

The man's accent was so broad Vicary had trouble understanding him.

"Where's the nearest telephone?"

"That'll be in Moreton."

"And where's that?"

"Follow that road there past the barn. Go left at the manor house and follow the trees into the next village. That's Moreton."

"Thank you."

The dog barked as the car sped away.

Vicary used the telephone at a bakery. He munched a cheese sandwich while he waited for the operator to connect him with the office. He wanted to share a little of his newfound wealth, so he ordered two dozen scones for the typists and the girls in Registry.

Harry came on the line.

Vicary said, "I don't think it was Christa Kunst they dug out of that grave in Whitchurch."

"Then who was it?"

"That's your job, Harry. Get on the phone with Scotland Yard. See if a woman went missing about the same time. Start within a two-hour radius of Whitchurch; then go wider if you have to. When I get back to the office, I'll brief Boothby."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"That we're looking for a dead Dutch woman. He'll love that."

18

Finding Peter Jordan would not be a problem. Finding him the right way would.

Vogel's information was good. Berlin knew Jordan worked at Grosvenor Square at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, better known as SHAEF. The square was heavily patrolled by military policemen, impenetrable to an outsider. Berlin had the address of Jordan's house in Kensington and had put together an extraordinary amount of information on Jordan's background. What was missing was a minute-by-minute account of his daily routine in London. Without it Catherine could only guess at how best to make her approach.

Following Jordan herself was out of the question for a number of reasons. The first dealt with her personal security. It would be very dangerous for her to trail an American officer through the West End of London. She could be spotted by military policemen or by Jordan himself. If the officers were feeling especially diligent they could bring her in for questioning. A little checking might reveal that the real Catherine Blake died thirty years ago at the age of eight months and that she was a German agent.

The second reason for not following Peter Jordan herself was purely practical. It was virtually impossible for her to do the job correctly alone. Even if Neumann helped it would be difficult. The first time Jordan stepped into a military staff car she would be completely helpless. She couldn't walk up to a taxi and say "Follow that American staff car." Cabbies were aware of the threat posed to Allied officers by spies. She might be driven straight to the nearest police station instead. She needed nondescript vehicles to tail him, nondescript men to walk with him, nondescript men to maintain a static post outside his home.

She needed help.

She needed Vernon Pope.

Vernon Pope was one of London's biggest and most successful underworld figures. Pope, along with his brother Robert, ran protection rackets, illegal gambling parlors, prostitution rings, and a thriving black market operation. Early in the war Vernon Pope had brought Robert to the emergency room at St. Thomas Hospital with a serious head wound suffered in the blitz. Catherine examined him quickly, saw that he was concussed, and suspected his skull might have been fractured. She made certain Robert was seen by a doctor straightaway. A grateful Vernon Pope had left a note for her. It said, If there's ever anything I can do to repay you please don't hesitate to ask.

Catherine kept the note. It was in her handbag.

Somehow, Vernon Pope's warehouse had survived the bombing. It stood intact, an arrogant island surrounded by seas of destruction. Catherine had not ventured to the East End in nearly four years. The devastation was shocking. It was difficult to make certain she was not being followed. There were few doorways left for shelter, no boxes for false telephone calls, no shops for a small purchase, just endless mountains of debris.

She watched the warehouse from across the street, a light cold rain falling. She wore trousers, sweater, and a leather coat. The doors of the warehouse were pulled back, and three heavy lorries rumbled out into the street. A pair of well-dressed men pulled them shut quickly, but not before Catherine caught a glimpse inside. It was a beehive of activity.

A knot of dockworkers walked past her, coming off the day shift. She dropped in a few paces behind them and walked toward the Pope warehouse.

There was a small gate with an electric buzzer for deliveries. She pressed it, received no answer, and pressed it again. Catherine felt she was being watched. Finally the gate drew back.

"What can we do for you, luv?" The pleasant Cockney voice did not match the figure before her. He stood well over six feet tall, with black hair cropped close to his skull and small spectacles. He wore an expensive gray suit with a white shirt and silver tie. The muscles of his upper arms filled out the sleeves of the jacket.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Pope, please." Catherine handed the hulk the note. He read quickly, as though he had seen many of them before.

"I'll ask the boss if he has a minute to see you. Come inside."

Catherine stepped through the gate, and he closed it behind her.

"Hands above your head, darling, that's a good girl. Nothing personal. Mr. Pope requires it of everyone." Pope's man patted her down. It was brisk and not very professional. She cringed as he ran his hands over her breasts. She resisted an impulse to crush his nose with her elbow. He opened her handbag, glanced inside, and handed it back. She had expected this so she had come unarmed. She felt naked without a weapon, vulnerable. Next time she would bring a stiletto.

He led her through the warehouse. Men dressed in overalls were loading crates of goods into half a dozen vans. At the far end of the warehouse boxes stood floor to ceiling on wooden pallets: coffee, cigarettes, sugar, as well as barrels of petrol. There was a fleet of shining motorbikes parked in a neat row. Vernon Pope was obviously doing a brisk business.

"This way, luv," he said. "Name's Dicky, by the way." He led her into a freight lift, pulled shut the doors, and pressed the button. Catherine reached into her purse for a cigarette and stuck it between her lips.

"Sorry, darling," said Dicky, waving a finger in disapproval. "The boss hates fags. Says one day we're going to find out they're killing us. Besides, there's enough petrol and ammunition in this place to blow us clear to Glasgow."

"That's some favor," Vernon Pope said. He rose from his comfortable leather sofa and roamed his office. It was not just an office but more like a small flat, with a seating area and a kitchen filled with modern appliances. There was a bedroom behind a pair of black teak doors. They parted briefly and Catherine spotted a drowsy blonde waiting impatiently for the meeting to conclude. Pope poured himself another whisky. He was tall and handsome, with pale skin, fair brilliantined hair, wintry gray eyes. His suit was carefully tailored and circumspect; it might have been worn by a successful executive or someone born to wealth.

"Can you imagine that, Robert? Catherine here actually wants us to spend three days chasing an American naval officer around the West End."

Robert Pope remained at the fringes, pacing like a skittish gray wolf.

"That's not really our line of work, Catherine darling," Vernon Pope said. "Besides, what if the Yank or British security boys catch on to our little game? The London police I deal with. MI-Five is another story."

Catherine withdrew a cigarette. "Do you mind?"

"If you must. Dicky, give her an ashtray."

Catherine lit the cigarette and smoked quietly for a moment. "I've seen the equipment you have downstairs in your warehouse. You could easily mount the kind of surveillance operation I'm talking about."

"And why in the world would a volunteer nurse from St. Thomas Hospital want to mount a surveillance operation on an Allied officer, Robert, I ask you?"

Robert Pope knew he was not expected to provide an answer. Vernon Pope moved to the window, drink cupped in his hand. The blackout curtains were raised, giving him a view of the boats working up and down the river. "Look at what the Germans have done to this place," he said finally. "Used to be the center of the world, the biggest port on the face of the earth. And now look at it: a bloody waste-land. Things will never be the same around here. You're not working for the Germans, are you, Catherine?"

"Of course not," she said calmly. "My reasons for following him are strictly personal."

"Good. I'm a thief but I'm still a patriot." He paused, then asked, "So why do you want him followed?"

"I'm offering you a job, Mr. Pope. Frankly, the reasons why are none of your business."

Pope turned around and faced her. "Very good, Catherine. You've got guts. I like that. Besides, you'd be a fool to tell me."

The bedroom doors parted and the blonde emerged, wearing a man's paisley silk robe. It was tied loosely at the waist, revealing a good pair of legs and small upturned breasts.

"Vivie, we're not finished yet," Pope said.

"I was thirsty." She glanced at Catherine while pouring herself a gin and tonic. "How much longer are you going to be, Vernon?"

"Not long. Business, darling. Back in the bedroom."

Vivie moved back to the bedroom, hips flowing beneath the gown. She threw another glance at Catherine over her shoulder before softly closing the door.

"Pretty girl," Catherine said. "You're a lucky man."

Vernon Pope laughed quietly and shook his head. "Sometimes I wish I could bestow some of my luck on another man."

There was a long silence while Pope paced the room. "I'm into a lot of shady things, Catherine, but I don't like this. I don't like it one little bit."

Catherine lit another cigarette. Maybe she had made a mistake by approaching Vernon Pope with the offer.

"But I'm going to do it. You helped my brother, and I made you a promise. I'm a man of my word." He paused, looking her up and down. "Besides, there's something about you I like. Very much."

"I'm glad we can do business together, Mr. Pope."

"It's going to cost you, luv. I've got a lot of overhead. I've got wages to pay. This kind of thing is going to take a good deal of my resources."

"That's why I came to you." Catherine reached inside her purse and withdrew an envelope. "How does two hundred pounds sound? One hundred now, one hundred on delivery of the information. I want Commander Jordan followed for seventy-two hours, twenty-four hours a day. I want a minute-by-minute accounting of his movements. I want to know where he eats, who he meets with, and what they talk about. I want to know if he's seeing any women. Can you manage that, Mr. Pope?"

"Of course."

"Good. Then I'll contact you on Saturday."

"How can I reach you?"

"Actually, you can't."

Catherine laid the envelope on the table and got to her feet.

Vernon Pope smiled pleasantly. "I thought you would say that. Dicky, show Catherine the way out. Put together a bag of groceries for her. Some coffee, some sugar, maybe a little tinned beef if that shipment came in. Something nice, Dicky."

"I have a bad feeling about this one, Vernon," Robert Pope said. "Maybe we should drop the whole thing."

Vernon Pope hated to be questioned by his younger brother. As far as Vernon was concerned, he made the business decisions and Robert handled the muscle.

"It's nothing we can't handle. Did you have her followed?"

"Dicky and the boys picked her up as she left the warehouse."

"Good. I want to know who that woman is and what she's playing at."

"Maybe we could turn this to our advantage. We could buy ourselves some goodwill with the police if we quietly tell them what she's up to."

"We'll do nothing of the kind. Is that clear?"

"Maybe you should think a little more about business and a little less about getting it wet."

Vernon turned on him and grabbed him by the throat. "What I do is none of your goddamned business. Besides, it's a helluva lot better than what you and Dicky do."

Robert visibly reddened.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Robert? You think I don't know what goes on?"

Vernon released his grip.

"Now get out on the street where you belong and make sure Dicky doesn't lose her."

Catherine spotted the tail two minutes after leaving the warehouse. She had expected it. Men like Vernon Pope don't stay in business long unless they are cautious and suspicious. But the tail was clumsy and amateurish. After all, Dicky had been the one who had greeted her, searched her, and taken her inside. She knew his face. Stupid of them to put him on the street to follow her. Losing him would be easy.

She ducked into an underground station, melting into the evening crowds. She crossed through the tunnel and emerged on the other side of the street. A bus was waiting. She boarded it and found a seat next to an elderly woman. Through the fogged window she watched Dicky charge up the stairs into the street, panic on his face.

She felt a little sorry for him. Poor Dicky was no match for a professional, and Vernon Pope would be furious. She would take no chances: a taxi ride, two or three more buses, a stroll through the West End before returning to her flat.

For now she settled into her seat and enjoyed the ride.

The bedroom was dark when Vernon Pope entered and quietly closed the doors. Vivie rose to her knees at the end of the bed. Vernon kissed her deeply. He was being rougher than usual. Vivie thought she knew why. She slid her hand down the front of his trousers. "Oh, my God, Vernon. Is this for me or that bitch?"

Vernon parted the silk robe and pushed it down over her shoulders. "A little of both, I'm afraid," he said, kissing her again.

"You wanted her right there in the office. I could see it on your face."

"You always were a perceptive little girl."

She kissed him again. "When is she coming back?"

"End of the week."

"What's her name?"

"Calls herself Catherine."

"Catherine," Vivie said. "What a lovely name. She's beautiful."

"Yes," Pope said distantly.

"What kind of business is she into?"

Pope told her about the meeting; there were no secrets between them.

"Sounds a bit touchy. I think we could bring a good bit of leverage to bear on her."

"You're a very smart girl."

"No, just a very nasty girl."

"Vivie, I can tell when your mind is working in evil ways."

She laughed wickedly. "I have three days to dream up all the wonderful things we can do to that woman when she comes back. Now, take off your pants so I can help ease your pain."

Vernon Pope did as he was told.

A moment later there was a soft knock at the door. Robert Pope stepped inside without waiting for an answer. A shaft of light partially illuminated the scene. Vivie looked up, unashamed, and smiled. Vernon exploded in anger.

"How many times have I told you not to come in here when the door is closed?"

"It's important. She got away from us."

"How in the hell did that happen?"

"Dicky swears she was there one minute and gone the next. She just vanished."

"For Christ's sake!"

"No one gets away from Dicky. She's obviously a professional. We ought to stay as far away from her as possible."

Vivie felt a stab of panic.

"Get out of here and close the door, Robert."

When Robert was gone, Vivie licked Vernon playfully.

"You're not going to take that little queer's advice, are you, Vernon?"

"Of course not."

"Good," she said. "Now, where were we?"

"Oh, my God," Vernon groaned.

19

Early the following morning, Robert Pope and Richard "Dicky" Dobbs made their unwitting debut in the world of wartime espionage with a hastily improvised surveillance of Commander Peter Jordan that would have made the watchers of MI5 a touch green with envy.

It began before the damp freezing dawn, when the pair arrived outside Jordan's Edwardian house in Kensington in a black paneled van, complete with boxes of tinned food in the back and the name of a West End grocer on the side. They waited there until shortly before eight o'clock, Pope dozing, Dicky nervously munching a soggy bun and drinking coffee from a paper cup. Vernon Pope had threatened him with grievous bodily harm over last night's foul-up with the woman. He was damned if he was going to lose Peter Jordan. Dicky, considered the finest wheel man in London's criminal underground, had secretly vowed to pursue Jordan across the lawns of Green Park if need be.

Such motoring heroics would not be necessary, for at seven fifty-five a.m. an American military staff car drew up outside Jordan's house and blew its horn. The door of the house opened and a man of medium height and build emerged. He wore a U.S. Navy uniform, a white cap, and a dark overcoat. A thin leather briefcase hung at the end of his arm. He vanished into the back of the car and closed the door. Dicky had been concentrating on Jordan so intently he forgot to start the engine. When he tried to do so it coughed once and died. He cursed it, threatened it, and cajoled it before trying again. This time the van roared into life, and their silent watch on Peter Jordan was under way.

Grosvenor Square would present them with their first challenge. It was crowded with taxis, staff cars, and Allied officers rushing in every direction. Jordan's car passed through the square, entered an adjacent side street, and stopped outside a small unmarked building. Remaining on the street was impossible. Vehicles were parked on both sides with only one lane for traffic, and a white-helmeted MP was pacing up and down, lazily swinging his baton. Pope hopped out and walked back and forth along the street while Dicky circled. Ten minutes later Jordan emerged from the building, a heavy briefcase chained to his wrist.

Dicky collected Pope and headed back to Grosvenor Square, arriving in time to spot Jordan walking through the front entrance of SHAEF headquarters. He found a parking space in Grosvenor Street with a clear view and turned off the engine. A few minutes later they caught a glimpse of General Eisenhower flashing one of his famous smiles before disappearing through the entrance.

Pope, even if he had been trained by MI5 itself, could not have discharged his next moves any better. He determined that they could not cover the building with a static post alone; it was a huge complex, with many ways in and out. Using a public phone, he telephoned Vernon at the warehouse and demanded three men. When they arrived he posted one behind the building in Blackburn Street, another in Upper Brook Street, and the third in Upper Grosvenor Street. Two hours later Pope called the warehouse again and demanded three fresh faces-it wasn't safe for civilians to loiter around American installations. Vicary and Boothby, had they been able to hear the conversation, might have laughed at the irony, for like any good desk man and field agent, Vernon and Robert quarreled bitterly over resources. The stakes were different, though. Vernon needed a couple of good men to pick up a shipment of stolen coffee and to rough up a shopkeeper who had fallen behind with his protection payments.

They changed vehicles at midday. The grocer's van was replaced by an identical van with the name of a fictitious laundry service stenciled on the side. It was so quickly prepared that the word laundry was spelled laundery and the white clothes bags piled in the back were stuffed with crumpled old newspapers. At two o'clock they were brought a thermos flask of tea and a bag of sandwiches. An hour later, having finished eating and smoking a pair of cigarettes, Pope was growing nervous. Jordan had been inside nearly seven hours. It was getting late. Every side of the building was covered. But if Jordan left in the gloom of the blackout, it would he nearly impossible to spot him. But at four o'clock, the light almost gone, Jordan left the building by the main door on Grosvenor Square.

He repeated the same circuit as the morning, only in reverse. He walked across the square to the smaller building, the same heavy briefcase chained to his wrist, and went inside. He emerged a few moments later carrying the smaller briefcase he had had earlier that morning. The rain had stopped, and Jordan apparently decided a walk would do him good. He headed west, then turned south in Park Lane. Following him in the van would be impossible. Pope hopped out and shadowed Jordan along the pavement, staying several yards behind him.

It was more difficult than Pope imagined. The large Grosvenor House hotel in Park Lane had been taken over by the Americans as a billet for officers. Dozens of people jammed the pavement outside. Pope moved closer to Jordan to make certain he didn't mistake him for one of the other men. A military policeman glanced at Pope as he sliced through the crowd after Jordan. On some streets in the West End, Englishmen stuck out the same way they would in Topeka, Kansas. Pope tensed. Then he realized he wasn't doing anything wrong. He was simply walking down the street in his own country. He relaxed and the MP looked away. Jordan walked past Grosvenor House. Pope moved carefully behind him.

Pope lost him at Hyde Park Corner.

Jordan had vanished into a crowd of soldiers and British civilians waiting to cross the street. When the light changed Pope followed an American naval officer roughly Jordan's height along Grosvenor Place. Then he looked down and realized the officer wasn't carrying a briefcase. He stopped and looked behind him, hoping Jordan would be there. He was gone.

Pope heard a horn blast in the street and looked up. It was Dicky.

"He's in Knightsbridge," Dicky said. "Get in."

Dicky executed a perfect U-turn through the buzzing evening traffic. Pope spotted Jordan a moment later and breathed a sigh of relief. Dicky pulled over and Pope jumped out. Determined not to lose his man again, Pope closed to within a few feet of him.

The Vandyke Club was a club for American officers in Kensington, off-limits to British civilians. Jordan went inside. Pope walked a few feet past the doorway, then doubled back. Dicky had pulled to the curb across the street. Pope, winded and chilled, climbed inside and closed the door. He lit a cigarette and finished the dregs of tea in the thermos. Then he said, "Next time Commander Jordan decides to walk halfway across London, you get out and walk with him, Dicky."

Jordan came out forty-five minutes later.

Pope thought, Please God, not another forced march.

Jordan stepped to the curb and flagged down a taxi.

Dicky dropped the van into gear and eased carefully out into the traffic. Following the taxi was easier. It headed east, past Trafalgar Square and into the Strand; then, after traveling a short distance, it turned right.

Pope said, "Now this is more like it."

They watched as Jordan paid off his taxi and stepped inside the Savoy Hotel.

The vast majority of British civilians survived the war on subsistence levels of food, a few ounces of meat and cheese each week, a few ounces of milk, one egg if they were lucky, delicacies like tinned peaches and tomatoes once in a great while. No one was starving, but few people put on weight. But there was another London, the London of fine restaurants and lavish hotels, which secured a steady supply of meat, fish, vegetables, wine, and coffee on the black market, then charged their customers exorbitant prices for the privilege of dining there. The Savoy Hotel was one of those establishments.

The doorman wore a green greatcoat, trimmed in silver, and a stovepipe hat. Pope brushed past him and went inside. He crossed the lobby and entered the salon. There were rich businessmen, reclining in the comfortable easy chairs, beautiful women in fashionable wartime evening clothes, dozens of American and British officers in uniform, tweedy landed gentry up from the country for a few days in the city. Pope, following Jordan through the crowd, had a mixed reaction to the opulent scene. The West End rich were living the high life while the underprivileged East Enders were hungry and suffering the most from the blitz. But then, he and his brother had made a fortune in the black market. He dismissed the disparity as an unfortunate consequence of war.

Pope followed Jordan into the Grill bar. Jordan stood alone among the throng, trying vainly to get the bartender's attention to order a drink. Pope stood a few feet from him. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a whisky. When he turned around, Jordan had been joined by a tall American naval officer with a red face and a good-natured smile. Pope took a step closer so he could hear their conversation.

The tall man said, "Hitler should come here and try to get a drink on a Friday night. I'm sure he'd have second thoughts about wanting to invade this country."

"You want to try our luck at Grosvenor House?" Jordan asked.

"Willow Run? Are you out of your mind? The French chef quit the other day. They ordered him to make the meals out of C-rations and he refused."

"Sounds like the last sane man in London."

"I'll say."

"What do you have to do to get a drink around this place?"

"This usually works: two martinis, for Christ's sake!"

The bartender looked up, grinned, and reached for a bottle of Beefeaters. "Hello, Mr. Ramsey."

"Hello, William."

Pope made a mental note. Jordan's friend was named Ramsey.

"Well done, Shepherd."

Pope thought, Shepherd Ramsey.

"It helps to be a foot taller than anyone else."

"Did you make a reservation? There's no way we're going to get in the Grill tonight without one."

"Of course I did, old sport. Where the hell have you been anyway? I tried calling you last week. Let the telephone at your house ring off the hook: no answer. Rang your office as well. They said you couldn't come to the phone. Rang back the next day, same story. What the hell were you doing that you couldn't come to the phone for two days?"

"None of your business."

"Ah, still working on that project of yours, are you?"

"Drop it, Shepherd, or I'll knock you on your ass right here in this bar."

"In your dreams, old sport. Besides, if you make a scene in here, where the hell will we do our drinking? No decent establishment would have your kind."

"Good point."

"So when are you going to tell me what you've been working on?"

"When the war is over."

"That important, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well, at least one of us is doing something important." Shepherd Ramsey downed his drink. "William, two more, please."

"Are we going to get drunk before dinner tonight?"

"I just want you to loosen up, that's all."

"This is about as loose as I get. What are you up to, Shepherd? I know that tone of voice."

"Nothing, Peter. Jesus, take it easy."

"Tell me. You know how I hate surprises."

"I've invited a couple of people to join us tonight."

"People?"

"Girls, actually. In fact, they've just arrived."

Pope followed Jordan's gaze toward the front of the bar. There were two women, both young, both very attractive. The women spotted Shepherd Ramsey and Jordan and joined them at the bar.

"Peter, this is Barbara. But most people call her Baby."

"That's understandable. Pleasure to meet you, Barbara."

Barbara looked at Shepherd. "God, you were right! He's a doll." She spoke with a working-class London accent. "Are we eating in the Grill?"

"Yes. In fact, our table should be ready."

The maitre d'hotel showed them to their table. There was no way Pope could listen to their conversation from the bar. He needed to be seated at the next table. Gazing through the entrance of the dining room, Pope could see the table beside them was empty but had a small reserved sign on it. No problem, he thought. He quickly crossed the bar and went out into the street. Dicky was waiting in the front of the van. Pope waved for him to come inside. Dicky climbed out and crossed the street.

"What is it, Robert?"

"We're having dinner. I need you to make the reservation." Pope sent Dicky to speak to the maitre d'hotel. The first time Dicky asked for the table, the man shook his head, frowned, and waved his hands to show there were no tables to be had. Then Dicky leaned down and whispered something into his ear that made him turn white and start to tremble. A moment later they were being seated at the table next to Peter Jordan and Shepherd Ramsey.

"What did you say to him, Dicky?"

"I told him if he didn't give us this table I'd rip out his Adam's apple and drop it into that flaming pan over there."

"Well, the customer is always right. That's what I say."

They opened their menus. Pope said, "Are you going to start with the smoked salmon or the pate de foie gras?"

"Both, I think. I'm starving. You don't suppose they serve bangers and mash here, do you, Robert?"

"Not bloody likely. Try the coq au vin. Now keep quiet so I can hear what these Yanks are saying."

It was Dicky who followed them outside after dinner. He watched as they placed the two women into a taxi and set out along the Strand.

"You might at least have been civil."

"I'm sorry, Shepherd. We didn't have much to talk about."

"What's there to talk about? You have a few drinks, a few laughs, you take her home and have a wonderful evening in bed. No questions asked."

"I had trouble getting past the fact that she kept using her knife to check her lipstick."

"Do you know what she could have done to you with those lips? And did you get a look at what she had beneath that dress? My God, Peter, that girl has one of the worst reputations in London."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Shepherd. I just wasn't interested."

"Well, when are you going to get interested?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Six months ago you promised me you were going to start dating."

Jordan lit a cigarette and angrily waved out the match. "I would like to meet an intelligent, interesting grown-up. I don't need you to go out and find me a girl. Listen, Shep, I'm sorry-"

"No, you're right. It's none of my business. It's just that my mother died when my father was forty. He never remarried. As a result he died a lonely, bitter old man. I don't want the same thing to happen to you."

"Thanks, Shepherd, it won't."

"You'll never find another woman like Margaret."

"Tell me something I don't know." Jordan flagged down a taxi and climbed in. "Can I give you a lift?"

"Actually, I have a previous engagement."

"Shepherd."

"She's meeting me back at my room in half an hour. I couldn't resist. Forgive me, but the flesh is weak."

"More than the flesh. Have a good time, Shep."

The taxi drove off. Dicky peeled away and looked for the van. Pope pulled over to the curb a few seconds later and Dicky climbed inside. They followed the taxi back into Kensington, saw Peter Jordan to his door, and stayed there a half hour, waiting for the night shift to arrive.

20

It had been Alfred Vicary's inability to repair a motorbike that led to his shattered knee. It happened on a glorious autumn day in the north of France, and without a doubt it was the worst day of his life.

Vicary had just finished a meeting with a spy who had gone behind enemy lines in a sector where the British planned to attack at dawn the next morning. The spy had discovered a large bivouac of German soldiers. The attack, if it went forward as planned, would be met with heavy resistance. The spy gave Vicary a handwritten note on the strength of the German troops and the number of artillery pieces he had spotted. He also gave Vicary a map showing exactly where they were camped. Vicary placed them in his leather saddlebag and set out back to headquarters.

Vicary knew he was carrying intelligence of vital importance; lives were at stake. He opened the throttle full and drove perilously fast along the narrow track. Large trees lined both sides of the path, a canopy of limbs overhead, the sunlight on the autumn leaves creating a flickering tunnel of fire. The path rose and fell rhythmically beneath him. Several times he felt the exhilarating thrill of his Rudge motorbike soaring airborne for a second or two.

The engine rattle began ten miles from headquarters. Vicary eased off the throttle. Over the next mile the rattle progressed to a loud clatter. A mile later he heard the sound of snapping metal, followed by a loud bang. The engine suddenly lost power and died.

With the roar of the bike gone, the silence was oppressive. He bent down and looked at the motor. The hot greasy metal and twisting cables meant nothing to him. He remembered actually kicking the thing and debating whether he should leave it by the roadside or drag it back to headquarters. He took hold of it by the handlebars and began pushing at a brisk pace.

The afternoon light diminished to a frail pink dusk. He was still miles from headquarters. If he were lucky, Vicary might run into someone from his own side who could give him a lift. If he were unlucky he might find himself face-to-face with a patrol of German scouts.

When the last of the twilight had died away, the shelling began. The first shells fell short, landing harmlessly in a field. The next shells soared overhead and thudded against a hillside. The third volley landed on the track directly in front of him.

Vicary never heard the shell that wounded him.

He regained consciousness sometime in the early evening as he lay freezing in a ditch. He looked down and nearly fainted at the sight of his knee, a mess of splintered bone and blood. He forced himself to crawl out of the ditch back up to the path. He found his bike and blacked out beside it.

Vicary came to in a field hospital the next morning. He knew the attack had gone forward because the hospital was overflowing. He lay in his bed all day, head swimming in a drowsy morphine haze, listening to the moaning of the wounded. At twilight the boy in the next bed died. Vicary closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sound of the death rattle, but it was no good.

Brendan Evans-his friend from Cambridge who had helped Vicary deceive his way into the Intelligence Corps-came to see him the next morning. The war had changed him. His boyish good looks were gone. He looked like a hardened, somewhat cruel man. Brendan pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed.

"It's all my fault," Vicary told him. "I knew the Germans were waiting. But my motorbike broke down and I couldn't fix the damned thing. Then the shelling started."

"I know. They found the papers in your saddlebag. No one's blaming you. It was just bloody awful luck, that's all. You probably couldn't have done anything to repair the bike in any case."

Sometimes, Vicary still heard the screams of the dying in his sleep-even now, almost thirty years later. In recent days his dream had taken a new twist-he dreamed it was Basil Boothby who had sabotaged his motorbike.

Ever read Vogel's file?

No.

Liar. Perfect liar.

Vicary had tried to refrain from the inevitable comparisons between then and now, but it was unavoidable. He did not believe in fate, but someone or something had given him another chance-a chance to redeem himself for his failure on that autumn day in 1916.

Vicary thought the party in the pub across the street from MI5 headquarters would help him take his mind off the case. It had not. He had lingered at the fringes, thinking about France, gazing into his beer, watching while other officers flirted with the pretty typists. Nicholas Jago was giving a rather good account of himself at the piano.

He was jolted out of his trance when one of the Registry Queens began singing "I'll Be Seeing You." She was an attractive crimson-lipped blonde named Grace Clarendon. Vicary knew she and Harry had carried on a rather public affair early in the war. Vicary understood the attraction. Grace was bright, witty, and cleverer than the rest of the girls in Registry. But she was also married, and Vicary did not approve. He didn't tell Harry how he felt; it was none of his business. He thought, Besides, who am I to lecture on matters of the heart? He suspected it was Grace who had told Harry about Boothby and the Vogel file.

Harry walked in, bundled in his overcoat. He winked at Grace, then walked over to Vicary and said, "Let's head back to the office. We need to talk."

"Her name was Beatrice Pymm. She lived alone in a cottage outside Ipswich," Harry began, as they walked upstairs to Vicary's office. He had spent several hours in Ipswich that morning, delving into Beatrice Pymm's past. "No friends, no family. Her mother died in 1936. Left her the cottage and a fair amount of money. She didn't have a job. She had no boyfriends, no lovers, not even a cat. The only thing she did was paint."

"Paint?" Vicary asked.

"Yeah, paint. The people I spoke to said she painted almost every day. She left the cottage early in the morning, went into the surrounding countryside, and spent all day painting. A detective from the Ipswich police showed me a couple of her paintings: landscapes. Very nice, actually."

Vicary frowned. "I didn't know you had an eye for art, Harry."

"You think boys from Battersea can't appreciate the finer things? I'll have you know my sainted mother regularly dragged me to the National Gallery."

"I'm sorry, Harry. Please continue."

"Beatrice didn't own a car. She either rode her bicycle or walked or took the bus. She used to paint too long, especially in the summer when the light was good, and miss the last bus back. Her neighbors would spot her arriving home late at night on foot carrying her painting things. They say she spent the night in some god-awful places, just to catch the sunrise."

"What do they think happened to her?"

"The official version of the story-accidental drowning. Her belongings were found on the banks of the Orwell, including an empty bottle of wine. The police think she may have had a little too much to drink, lost her footing, slipped into the water, and drowned. No body was found. They investigated for some time but couldn't find any evidence to support any other theory. They declared her death an accidental drowning and closed the case."

"Sounds like a very plausible story."

"Sure, it could have happened that way. But I doubt it. Beatrice Pymm was very familiar with the area. Why on that particular day did she have a little too much to drink and fall into the river?"

"Theory number two?"

"Theory number two goes as follows: she was picked up by our spy after dark, stabbed in the heart, and her body loaded into a van. Her things were left on the river-bank in order to make it appear like an accidental drowning. In reality, the corpse was driven across the country, mutilated, and buried outside Whitchurch."

They arrived in Vicary's office and sat down, Vicary behind the desk, Harry opposite. Harry leaned back in his chair and propped up his feet.

"Is this all supposition, or do you have facts to support your theory?"

"Half and half, but it all fits your guess that Beatrice Pymm was murdered in order to conceal the spy's entry into the country."

"Let's hear it."

"I'll start with the corpse. The body was discovered in August 1939. I spoke to the Home Office pathologist who examined it. Judging from the decomposition, he estimated it had been in the ground six to nine months. That's consistent with Beatrice Pymm's disappearance, by the way. The bones of the face had been almost completely shattered. There were no teeth to compare dental records. There were no fingerprints to be taken because the hands had badly decomposed. He was unable to fix a cause of death. He did find one interesting clue, though, a nick on the bottom rib of the left side. That nick is consistent with being stabbed in the chest."

"You say the killer may have used a van? What's your evidence?"

"I asked the local police forces for reports on any crimes or disturbances around Whitchurch the night of Beatrice Pymm's murder. Coincidentally, a van was deserted and set deliberately ablaze outside a village called Alderton. They ran a check on the van's identification number."

"And?"

"Stolen in London two days earlier."

Vicary rose and began pacing. "So our spy is in the middle of nowhere with a van blazing on the side of the road. Where does she go now? What does she do?"

"Let's assume she comes back to London. She flags down a passing car or lorry and asks for a lift. Or maybe she walks to the nearest station and takes the first train into London."

"Too risky," Vicary said. "A woman alone in the middle of the countryside late at night would be very unusual. It's November, so it's cold too. She might be spotted by the police. The murder of Beatrice Pymm was perfectly planned and executed. Her killer wouldn't leave her escape to chance."

"How about a motorbike in the back of the van?"

"Good idea. Run a check. See if any motorbikes were stolen about that time."

"She rides back to London and ditches the bike."

"That's right," Vicary said. "And when war breaks out we don't look for a Dutch woman named Christa Kunst because we assume incorrectly that she's dead."

"Clever as hell."

"More ruthless than clever. Imagine, killing an innocent British civilian to better conceal a spy. This is no ordinary agent, and Kurt Vogel is no ordinary control officer. I'm convinced of that." Vicary paused to light a cigarette. "Has the photograph yielded any leads?"

"Nothing."

"I think that leaves our investigation dead in the water."

"I'm afraid you're right. I'll make a few more calls tonight."

Vicary shook his head. "Take the rest of the night off. Go down to the party." Then he added, "Spend some time with Grace."

Harry looked up. "How did you know?"

"This place is filled with intelligence officers, if you haven't noticed. Things get around, people talk. Besides, you two weren't exactly circumspect. You used to leave the number of Grace's flat with the night operators in case I was looking for you."

Harry's face reddened.

"Go to her, Harry. She misses you-any fool can see that."

"I miss her too. But she's married. I broke it off because I felt like a complete cad."

"You make her happy and she makes you happy. When her husband comes home, if her husband comes home, things will go back to normal."

"And where does that leave me?"

"That's up to you."

"It leaves me with a broken heart, that's where it leaves me. I'm crazy about Grace."

"Then be with her and enjoy her company."

"There's something else." Harry told him about the other aspect of his guilt over his affair with Grace-the fact that he was in London chasing spies while Grace's husband and other men were risking their lives in the military. "I just don't know what I would do under fire, how I would react. Whether I would be brave or whether I would be a coward. I also don't know whether I'm doing any damned good here. I could name a hundred other detectives who can do what I do. Sometimes I think about giving Boothby my resignation and joining up."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. When you do your job right you save lives on the battlefield. The invasion of France is going to be won or lost before the first soldier ever sets foot on a French beach. Thousands of lives may depend on what you do. If you don't think you're doing your bit, think of it in those terms. Besides, I need you. You're the only one I can trust around here."

They sat in an awkward, embarrassed silence for a moment, the way Englishmen are apt to do after sharing private thoughts. Harry stood up, started for the door, then stopped and turned around. "What about you, Alfred? Why is there no one in your life? Why don't you come downstairs to the party and find a nice woman to spend some time with?"

Vicary beat his breast pockets for his half-moon reading glasses and thrust them onto his face. "Good night, Harry," he said, a little too firmly, as he leafed through a stack of papers on the desk in front of him. "Have fun at the party. I'll see you in the morning."

When Harry was gone Vicary picked up the telephone and dialed Boothby's number. He was surprised when Boothby answered his own telephone. When Vicary asked if he was free, Sir Basil wondered aloud whether it could wait until Monday morning. Vicary said it was important. Sir Basil granted him an audience of five minutes and told Vicary to come upstairs straightaway.

"I've drafted this memorandum to General Eisenhower, General Betts, and the prime minister," Vicary said, when he finished briefing Boothby on Harry's discoveries that day. He handed it to Boothby, who remained standing, feet slightly apart as if for balance. He was in a hurry to leave for the country. His secretary had packed a secure briefcase of weekend reading material and a small leather grip of personal items. An overcoat hung over his shoulders, sleeves dangling at his sides. "To keep quiet about this any longer would be a dereliction of duty in my opinion, Sir Basil."

Boothby was still reading; Vicary knew this because his lips were moving. He was squinting so hard his eyes had vanished into his lush brows. Sir Basil liked to pretend he still had perfect vision and refused to wear his reading glasses in front of the staff.

"I thought we'd discussed this once already, Alfred," Boothby said, waving the sheet of paper through the air. A problem, once dealt with, should never resurface-it was one of Sir Basil's many personal and professional maxims. He was apt to grow agitated when subordinates raised matters already dispensed with. Careful deliberation and second-guessing were the province of weaker minds. Sir Basil valued quick decision making over all else. Vicary glanced at Sir Basil's desk. It was clean, polished, and absolutely void of paper or files, a monument to Boothby's management style.

"We have discussed this once already, Sir Basil," Vicary said patiently, "but the situation has changed. It appears they've managed to insert an agent into the country and that agent has met with an agent in place. It appears that their operation-whatever it may be-is now under way. To sit on this information instead of passing it on is to court disaster."

"Nonsense," Boothby snapped.

"Why is it nonsense?"

"Because this department is not going to officially inform the Americans and the prime minister that it is incapable of performing its job. That it is incapable of controlling the threat posed to the invasion preparations by German spies."

"That's not a valid reason for concealing this information."

"It is a valid reason, Alfred, if I say it is a valid reason."

Conversations with Boothby often assumed the characteristics of a cat chasing its own tail: shallow contradiction, bluff and diversion, point-scoring contests. Vicary bunched his hands judicially beneath his chin and pretended to study the pattern of Boothby's costly rug. The room was silent except for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath Sir Basil's muscular bulk.

"Are you prepared to forward my memorandum to the director-general?" Vicary asked. His tone of voice was as unthreatening as possible.

"Absolutely not."

"Then I'm prepared to go directly to the DG myself."

Boothby bent his body and put his face close to Vicary's. Vicary, seated in Boothby's deep couch, could smell gin and cigarettes on his breath.

"And I'm prepared to squash you, Alfred."

"Sir Basil-"

"Let me remind you how the system works. You report to me, and I report to the director-general. You have reported to me, and I have determined it would be inappropriate to forward this matter to the DG at this time."

"There is one other option."

Boothby's head snapped back as if he had been punched. He quickly regained his composure, setting his jaw in an angry scowl. "I don't report to the prime minister, nor do I serve at his pleasure. But if you go around the department and speak directly to Churchill, I'll have you brought up before an internal review committee. By the time the committee is finished with you, they'll need dental records to identify the body."

"That's completely unfair."

"Is it? Since you've taken charge of this case it's been one disaster after another. My God, Alfred-a few more German spies running loose in this country and they could form a rugby club."

Vicary refused to be baited. "If you're not going to present my report to the director-general, I want the official record of this affair to reflect the fact that I made the suggestion at this time and you turned it down."

The corners of Boothby's mouth lifted into a terse smile. Protecting one's flank was something he understood and appreciated. "Already thinking of your place in history, are you, Alfred?"

"You're a complete bastard, Sir Basil. And an incompetent one as well."

"You're addressing a senior officer, Major Vicary!"

"Believe me, I haven't missed the irony."

Boothby snatched up the briefcase and his leather grip, then looked at Vicary and said, "You have a great deal to learn."

"I suppose I could learn it from you."

"And what in God's name is that supposed to mean?"

Vicary got to his feet. "It means you should start thinking more about the security of this country and less about your personal advancement through Whitehall."

Boothby smiled easily, as if he were trying to seduce a younger woman. "But, my dear Alfred," he said, "I've always considered the two to be completely intertwined."

21

Catherine Blake had a stiletto hidden in her handbag the following evening as she hurried along the pavement toward the Popes' warehouse. She had demanded a meeting alone with Vernon Pope, and, as she approached the warehouse, she saw no sign of Pope's men. She stopped at the gate and turned the latch. It was unlocked, just as Pope said it would be. She pulled it open and stepped inside.

The warehouse was a place of shadows, the only illumination from a light hanging at one end of the room. Catherine walked toward the light and found the freight lift. She stepped inside, pulled the gate closed, and pressed the button. The lift groaned and shuddered upward toward Pope's office.

The lift emptied onto a small landing with a set of black double doors. Catherine knocked and heard Pope's voice on the other side tell her to enter. He was standing at a drinks trolley, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a pair of glasses in the other. He held one out toward Catherine as she walked across the floor.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'm just staying for a minute."

"I insist," he said. "Things got a little tense the last time we were together. I want to make it up to you."

"Is that why you had me followed?" she said, accepting the wine.

"I have everyone followed, darling. That's how I stay in business. My boys are good at it, as you'll see when you read this." He held out an envelope toward Catherine, then pulled it away as her hand reached for it. "That's why I was so surprised when you managed to give Dicky the slip. That was smooth-ducking into the underground and then jumping on a bus."

"I changed my mind." She drank some of the champagne. It was ice cold and excellent. Pope held out the envelope again and this time allowed Catherine to take it. She set down her glass and opened it.

It was exactly what she needed, a minute-by-minute account of Peter Jordan's movements around London: where he worked, the hours he kept, the places he did his eating and drinking, even the name of a friend.

While she finished reading, Pope took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured another glass for himself. Catherine reached inside her handbag, took out the money, and dropped it on the table. "Here's the rest," she said. "I think that concludes our business. Thank you very much."

She was slipping the report on Peter Jordan into her purse when Pope stepped forward and loosened her grip on the bag. "Actually, Catherine darling, our business together has just begun."

"If it's more money you want-"

"Oh, I want more money. And if you don't want me to make a call to the police, you're going to give it to me." He took another step closer to her, pressed his body against hers, and ran his hand over her breasts. "But there's something else I want from you."

The bedroom doors opened and Vivie stood there, wearing nothing but one of Vernon's shirts unbuttoned to her waist. "Vivie, meet Catherine," Pope said. "Lovely Catherine has agreed to stay for the evening."

They didn't prepare her for situations like this at the Abwehr spy school in Berlin. They taught her how to count troops, how to assess an army, how to use her radio, how to recognize the insignia of units and the faces of senior officers. But they never taught her how to deal with a London gangster and his kinky girlfriend who planned to spend the evening taking turns with her body. She had the sensation of being trapped in some silly pubescent fantasy. She thought, This can't really be happening. But it was happening, and Catherine could think of nothing from her training to get her through it.

Vernon Pope led her through the doors into the bedroom. He pushed her down at the end of the bed, then sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. Vivie stood in front of her and undid the last two buttons of the shirt. She had small upturned breasts and pale skin that shone in the dim light of the room. She took hold of Catherine's head and pulled it to her breasts. Catherine played along with the depraved game, taking Vivie's nipple into her mouth, while she thought about how best to kill them both.

Catherine knew once she submitted to blackmail it would never end. Her financial resources were not unlimited. Vernon Pope could bleed her dry very quickly. With no money, she would be rendered useless. She decided there was little risk involved; she had covered her tracks carefully. The Popes and their men did not know where to find her. They only knew she worked as a volunteer nurse at St. Thomas Hospital, and Catherine had given the hospital a false address. They would also be reluctant to go to the police. The police would ask questions-answering them truthfully would mean admitting to following an American naval officer for money.

All of it hinged on killing Vernon Pope as quickly and quietly as possible.

Catherine took Vivie's other breast into her mouth and sucked the nipple until it became firm. Vivie's head rolled back and she moaned. She took Catherine's hand and guided it between her legs. Already she was warm and wet. Catherine had turned off all her emotions. She was just mechanically going through the movements of giving physical pleasure to this woman. She felt neither fear nor revulsion; she simply tried to remain calm and to think clearly. Vivie's pelvis began to work against Catherine's fingers, and a moment later her body trembled with an orgasm.

Vivie pushed Catherine down onto the bed, sat astride her hips, and began undoing the buttons of her sweater. She unhooked Catherine's brassiere and massaged her breasts. Catherine saw Vernon rise from his seat and begin to undress. For the first time she became nervous. She didn't want him on top of her or inside her. He might be a cruel and sadistic lover. He might hurt her. On her back, with her legs spread, she would be vulnerable. She would also be subject to his superior weight and strength. All the fighting techniques she had learned hinged on speed and maneuverability. If she were pinned beneath Vernon Pope's heavy body she would be defenseless.

Catherine had to play their game. Better still, she had to control it.

She reached up and took Vivie's breasts in her hands and stroked the nipples. She could see Vernon watching them. He was feeding on them with his eyes, drinking in the sight of the two women caressing each other. She drew Vivie toward her and guided her mouth to her breasts. Catherine thought how easy it would be to take Vivie's head in her hands and twist it until her neck snapped, but it would be a mistake. She needed to kill Pope first. Vivie would be easy after that.

Pope walked toward the bed and nudged Vivie aside.

Before Vernon could lie down on top of her, Catherine sat up and kissed him. She got to her feet as his tongue thrashed wildly about inside her mouth. She fought off an impulse to gag. For a moment she considered allowing him to make love to her, then killing him afterward when he was drowsy and satisfied. But she didn't want it to go on longer than was absolutely necessary.

She stroked his penis. He groaned and kissed her harder.

He was helpless now. She turned him so that his back faced the bed.

Then she slammed her knee viciously into his groin.

Pope doubled over, gasping for breath, hands between his thighs. Vivie screamed.

Catherine spun and drove her elbow into the bridge of his nose. She could hear the sound of the bone and cartilage snapping. Pope collapsed onto the floor at the foot of the bed, blood pouring from his nostrils. Vivie was kneeling on the bed, screaming. She was no threat to Catherine now.

She turned and moved quickly for the door. Pope, still on the floor, swung his leg.

It smashed into Catherine's right ankle and caused her own legs to become entangled. She crashed to the floor, the heavy fall taking her breath away. She saw stars for a moment and tears spilled into her eyes. She feared she was about to lose consciousness.

She struggled to her hands and knees and was about to climb to her feet when Pope grabbed her ankle in a vise grip and began dragging her toward him. She rolled quickly onto her side and drove the heel of her shoe into his broken nose. Pope screamed in agony, but his grip on her ankle seemed only to tighten.

She kicked him a second time, then a third. Finally, he let her go.

Catherine scrambled to her feet and ran to the couch, where Pope had made her leave her handbag. She opened it and unzipped the inner compartment. The stiletto was there. She took hold of the handle and pressed the release. The blade snapped into place.

Pope was on his feet, plunging through the darkness, hands reaching out for her. Catherine spun around and lashed out wildly with the weapon. The tip of the blade tore a gash across his right shoulder.

Pope grabbed the wound with his left hand, screaming in pain as blood began to pump between his fingers. His arm was across his chest-no way to plunge the stiletto into his heart. The Abwehr had taught her another method that made her cringe just to think about. But she would have to use it now. No other choice.

Catherine took a step closer, drew back the stiletto, and rammed it through Vernon Pope's eye.

Vivie was in the corner of the bedroom, lying on the floor in a fetal position, weeping hysterically. Catherine took her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and pushed her back against the wall.

"Please-don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"Don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I promise I won't tell anyone, not even Robert. I swear."

"Nor the police?"

"I won't tell the police."

"Good. I knew I could trust you."

Catherine stroked her hair, touched her face. Vivie seemed to relax. Her body went limp and Catherine had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing onto the floor.

"What are you?" Vivie asked. "How could you do that to him?"

Catherine said nothing, just stroked Vivie's hair while her other hand gently searched for the soft spot at the bottom of the rib cage. Vivie's eyes opened wide as the stiletto slid into her heart. A cry of pain caught in her throat and came out as a low gurgle. She died quickly and quietly, blank eyes staring into Catherine's.

Catherine released her. The motion of the body sliding down the wall pulled the stiletto from her heart. Catherine looked at the human wreckage all around her, the blood. My God, what have they made of me? Then she fell to her knees next to Vivie's dead body and was violently sick.

She conducted the rituals of escape with surprising calmness. In the bathroom, she washed their blood from her hands, from her face, and from the blade of the stiletto. There was nothing she could do about the blood on her sweater except conceal it beneath her leather coat. She walked through the bedroom, past the body of the woman, and into the next room. She went to the window and looked down into the street. Pope, it appeared, had kept his word. There was no one outside the warehouse. They would surely find his body in the morning, though, and when they did, they would come after her. For now, at least, she was safe. She collected her handbag and, from the table, the one hundred pounds in cash she had given Pope. She took the lift down, crossed the warehouse floor, and slipped out into the night.

22

Detective-Superintendent Andrew Kidlington, unlike most members of his profession, avoided murder scenes when he could. A lay preacher in his local church, he had lost his taste for the more ghoulish side of his profession long ago. He had assembled a thoroughly professional team of officers and believed it best to give them free rein. He had a legendary ability to deduce more about a murder from a good file than from a visit to the crime scene, and he made certain every shred of paper generated by his department crossed his desk. But it wasn't every day that someone stuck a knife in a man like Vernon Pope. This one he had to see for himself.

The uniformed officer standing watch outside the warehouse door moved aside as Kidlington approached. "The lift is at the far end of the warehouse, sir. Take it up one level. There's another man on the landing. He'll show you the way."

Kidlington slowly crossed the warehouse floor. He was tall and angular with a head of woolly gray hair and the look of someone perpetually preparing to break bad news. As a result his men tended to tread lightly around him.

A young detective-sergeant named Meadows was waiting for him on the landing. Meadows was too flashy for Kidlington's taste and put himself about with too many women. But he was an excellent detective and had promotion written all over him.

"Pretty messy in there, sir," Meadows said.

Kidlington could taste blood in the air as Meadows led him inside. Vernon Pope's body lay on an Oriental rug next to the couch. The dark circle of blood extended beyond the gray covering sheet. Kidlington, despite thirty years on the Metropolitan Police, still felt bile rising in his throat when Meadows knelt beside the body and drew back the sheet.

"Good Lord," Kidlington said, beneath his breath. He made a face and turned away for a moment to regain his composure.

"I've never seen one like this," Meadows said.

The dead body of Vernon Pope was lying naked, faceup, in a pool of dried black blood. It was obvious to Kidlington that the fatal wound was struck only after a brutal struggle. There was a large ragged slash across his shoulder. The nose had been badly broken. Blood had drained from both nostrils into the mouth, which had fallen open in death, as if to issue one last scream. Then there was the eye. Kidlington had trouble looking at it. Blood and ocular fluid had drained down the side of his face. The eyeball was destroyed, the pupil no longer visible. It would take an autopsy to determine the true depth of the wound, but it appeared to be the fatal blow. Someone had shoved something through Vernon Pope's eye and into his brain.

Kidlington broke the silence. "Approximate time of death?"

"Sometime last night, perhaps early evening."

"Weapon?"

"Hard to say. Certainly not an ordinary knife. Look at the shoulder. The edges of the wound are ragged."

"Conclusion?"

"Something sharp. A screwdriver, an ice pick perhaps." Kidlington glanced across the room. "Pope's is still on the drinks trolley. Unless your killer is walking around with his own ice pick, I doubt it was the murder weapon." Kidlington looked down at the body again. "I'd say it was a stiletto. It's a stabbing weapon, not a slashing weapon. That would account for the ragged wound on the shoulder and the clean puncture wound in the eye."

"Right, sir."

Kidlington had seen enough. He rose to his feet and gestured for Meadows to cover the body.

"The woman?"

"In the bedroom. This way, sir."

Robert Pope sat in the passenger seat of the van, pale and shaking visibly, as Dicky Dobbs drove at speed toward St. Thomas Hospital. It was Robert who had discovered the bodies of his brother and Vivie earlier that morning. He had waited for Vernon at the East End cafe where they ate breakfast each morning and became alarmed when he didn't appear. He fetched Dicky from his flat and went to the warehouse. When he saw the bodies he screamed and put his foot through the glass table.

Robert and Vernon Pope were realistic men. They realized they were in a risky line of work and that one or both of them might die young. Like all siblings they fought sometimes, but Robert Pope loved his older brother more than anything else in the world. Vernon had been like a father to him when their own father, an abusive unemployed alcoholic, walked out and never came back. It was the way he died that had horrified Robert the most: stabbed through the eye, left on the floor naked. And Vivie, an innocent, stabbed through the heart.

It was possible the killings were the work of one of their enemies. Their operation had thrived during the war and they had branched out into new territory. But it didn't look like any gang murder he had ever seen. Robert suspected it had something to do with the woman: Catherine, or whatever her name really was. He had made an anonymous call to the police-they would have to get involved at some point-but he wouldn't rely on them to find his brother's killer. He would do it himself.

Dicky parked along the river and entered the hospital through a service door. He came out again five minutes later and walked back to the van.

Pope asked, "Was he there?"

"Yeah. He thinks he can get it for us."

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes."

Half an hour later a thin man with a pinched face dressed in an orderly's uniform emerged from the back of the hospital and trotted over to the van.

Dicky wound down the window.

"I got it, Mr. Pope," he said. "A girl in the front office gave it to me. She said it was against the rules but I sweet-talked her. Promised her a fiver. Hope you don't mind."

Dicky held out his hand and the orderly gave him a slip of paper. Dicky passed it across to Pope.

"Good work, Sammy," Pope said, looking at it. "Give him his money, Dicky."

The orderly took the money, a disappointed look on his face.

Dicky said, "What's wrong, Sammy? Ten bob, just like I promised."

"What about the fiver for the girl?"

"Consider that your overhead," Pope said.

"But, Mr. Pope-"

"Sammy, you don't want to fuck with me just now."

Dicky dropped the van into gear and sped away, tires squealing.

"Where's the address?" Dicky asked.

"Islington. Move it!"

Mrs. Eunice Wright of Number 23 Norton Lane, Islington, was very much like her house: tall, narrow, midfifties, all Victorian sturdiness and Victorian manners. She did not know-nor would she ever know, even when the entire disagreeable episode was over-that the house had been used as a false address by an agent of German military intelligence called Catherine Blake.

For two weeks Eunice Wright had been waiting for a repairman to come look at her cracked boiler. Before the war the tenants in her well-kept boardinghouse were mostly young men, who were always willing to help when something went wrong with the pipes or the stove. Now all the young men were away in the army. Her own son, never far from her thoughts, was somewhere in North Africa. She took no pleasure in her present tenants-two old men who talked a great deal about the last war, two rather daft country girls who had fled their dreary East Midlands village for factory jobs in London. When Leonard was alive he saw to all the repairs, but Leonard had been dead for ten years.

She stood in the window of the drawing room, sipping tea. The house was quiet. The men were upstairs playing draughts. She had insisted they play without slapping the pieces so as not to wake the girls, who had just come off a night shift. Bored, she switched on the wireless and listened to the news bulletin on the BBC.

The van, when it drew to a halt in front of her house, struck her as odd. It bore no markings-no company name painted on the side-and the two men in front didn't look like any repairmen she had ever seen. The one behind the wheel was tall and thick, with close-cropped hair and a neck so enormous it looked as though his head were simply attached to his shoulders. The other one was smaller, dark-haired, and looked mad at the world. Their clothing was odd too. Instead of workman's overalls they wore suits, quite expensive suits by the look of them.

They opened the doors and got out. Eunice took note of the fact they carried no tools. Perhaps they wanted to survey the damage to her boiler before dragging all the tools inside. Just being thorough, making sure they bring only those tools that are necessary for the job. She studied them more carefully as they moved toward her front door. They looked reasonably healthy. Why weren't they in the army? She noticed the way they glanced over their shoulders into the street as they came closer, as though they were trying to make their approach unobserved. Suddenly, she wished Leonard were here.

There was nothing polite about the knock. She imagined policemen knocked that way when they thought a criminal was on the other side. Another knock, so forceful it rattled the glass of the drawing room window.

Upstairs, the game of draughts went quiet.

She went to the door. She told herself there was no reason to be afraid; they just lacked the good manners common to most English handymen. It was the war. The experienced repairmen were in the service, working on bombers or frigates. The bad ones-like the pair outside-were holding down jobs at home.

Slowly she opened the door. She wanted to ask them to be as quiet as possible so they would not wake the girls. She never got the words out. The large one-the one with no neck-shoved back the door with his forearm, then clamped his hand over her mouth. Eunice tried to scream but it seemed to die quietly in the back of her throat, making almost no audible sound.

The smaller one put his face to her ear and spoke with a serenity that only frightened her more.

"Just give us what we want, luv, and no one gets hurt," he said.

Then he pushed past her and started up the stairs.

Detective-Sergeant Meadows considered himself a minor authority on the Pope gang. He knew how they made their money-legally and illegally-and he could recognize most of the gang members by name and face. So when he heard the description of the two men who just ransacked a boardinghouse in Islington he wrapped up his business at the murder scene and headed there to see things for himself. The first description matched Richard "Dicky" Dobbs, the Popes' main muscle boy and enforcer. The other matched Robert Pope himself.

Meadows, as was his habit, paced the drawing room while Eunice Wright, sitting bolt upright in a chair, patiently recounted the story again, even though she had told it twice already. Her cup of tea had given way to a small glass of sherry. Her face bore the handprint of her assailant, and she had received a bump on the head when shoved to the floor. Otherwise, she was not seriously injured.

"And they didn't tell you who or what they were looking for?" Meadows asked, ceasing his pacing only long enough to ask the question.

"No."

"Did they call each other by name?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Did you happen to see the plate number on the van?"

"No, but I did give a description to one of the other officers."

"It's a very common model, Mrs. Wright. I'm afraid the description alone won't be of much value to us. I'll have one of the men check with the neighbors."

"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing the back of her head.

"Are you all right?"

"He gave me a nasty bump on the head, the ruffian!"

"Perhaps you should see a doctor. I'll have one of the officers give you a lift when we're finished here."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you."

Meadows picked up his raincoat and put it on. "Did they say anything else that you can remember?"

"Well, they did say one other thing." Eunice Wright hesitated a moment, and her face colored. "The language is a little on the rough side, I'm afraid."

"I assure you I won't be offended."

"The smaller one said, 'When I find that' "-she paused, lowering her voice, embarrassed to say the words-" 'when I find that fucking bitch I'm going to kill her myself.' "

Meadows frowned. "You're certain of that?"

"Oh, yes. When you don't often hear language like that, it's hard to forget."

"I'll say." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Good morning, Mrs. Wright."

"Good morning, Detective-Sergeant."

Meadows put on his hat and saw himself to the door. So they were looking for a woman. Maybe it wasn't the Popes after all. Maybe it was just two blokes looking for a girl. Maybe the similar descriptions were just coincidence. Meadows didn't believe in coincidence. He would drive back to the Popes' warehouse and see if anyone had spotted a woman hanging around there lately.

23

Catherine Blake assumed that Allied officers who knew the most important secret of the war had been made aware of the threat posed by spies. Why else would Commander Peter Jordan handcuff his briefcase to his wrist for a short walk across Grosvenor Square? She also assumed that officers had been warned about approaches by women. Earlier in the war she had seen a poster outside a club frequented by British officers. It showed a luscious, big-breasted blonde in a low-cut evening gown, waiting for an officer to light her cigarette for her. Across the bottom of the poster were the words KEEP IT MUM, SHE'S NOT SO DUMB. Catherine thought it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. If there were women like that-tarts who hung around clubs or parties listening for gossip and secrets-she did not know about them. She did suspect that such indoctrination would make Peter Jordan distrustful of a beautiful woman suddenly vying for his attention. He was also a successful, intelligent, and attractive man. He would be very discriminating in the women he chose to spend time with. The scene at the Savoy the other night was evidence of that. He had become angry with his friend Shepherd Ramsey for setting him up with a young, stupid girl. Catherine would have to make her approach very carefully.

Which explained why she was standing on a corner near the Vandyke Club with a bag of groceries in her arms.

It was shortly before six o'clock. London was shrouded in the blackout. The evening traffic gave off just enough light for her to see the doorway of the club. A few minutes later a man of medium height and build emerged. It was Peter Jordan. He paused for a moment to button his overcoat. If he kept to his evening routine he would walk the short distance to his house. If he broke his routine by flagging down a taxi, Catherine would be out of luck. She would be forced to come back again tomorrow night with her bag of groceries.

Jordan turned up the collar of his overcoat and started walking her way. Catherine Blake waited for a moment and then stepped directly in front of him.

When they collided there was the sound of paper splitting and tins of food tumbling to the pavement.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Please, let me help you up."

"No, it's my fault. I'm afraid I've misplaced my blackout torch and I've been wandering around out here lost. I feel like such a fool."

"No, it's my fault. I was trying to prove to myself that I could find my way home in the dark. Here, I have a torch. Let me turn it on."

"Do you mind turning the beam toward the pavement? I believe my rations are rolling toward Hyde Park."

"Here, take my hand."

"Thank you. By the way, you can stop shining the light in my face any time now."

"I'm sorry, you're just-"

"Just what?"

"Never mind. I don't think that sack of flour survived."

"That's all right."

"Here, let me help you pick these things up."

"I can manage. Thank you."

"No, I insist. And let me replace the flour for you. I have plenty of food at my house. My problem is I don't know what to do with it."

"Doesn't the navy feed you?"

"How did-"

"I'm afraid the uniform and the accent gave you away. Besides, only an American officer would be silly enough to intentionally walk the streets of London without using a torch. I've lived here all my life, and I still can't find my way round in the blackout."

"Please, let me replace the things you've lost."

"That's a very kind offer but it's not necessary. It was a pleasure bumping into you."

"Yes-yes, it was."

"Can you kindly point me in the direction of Brompton Road?"

"It's that way."

"Thank you very much."

She turned and started to walk away.

"Hold on a minute. I have another suggestion."

She stopped walking and turned around.

"And what might that be?"

"I wonder if you might have a drink with me sometime."

She hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure I want to drink with a frightful American who insists on walking the streets of London without a torch. But I suppose you look harmless enough. So the answer is yes."

She walked away again.

"Wait, come back. I don't even know your name."

"It's Catherine," she called. "Catherine Blake."

"I need your telephone number," Jordan said helplessly.

But she had melted into the darkness and was gone.

When Peter Jordan arrived home he went into his study, picked up the telephone, and dialed. He identified himself, and a pleasant female voice instructed him to remain on the line. A moment later he heard the English-accented voice of the man he knew only as Broome.

24

Alfred Vicary was being stretched to the breaking point. Despite the intense pressure to capture the spies, Vicary had kept his old caseload-the Becker network. He had considered asking to be relieved of it until after the spies had been arrested, but he quickly rejected the idea. He was the genius behind the Becker network; it was his masterpiece. It had taken countless hours to build and countless more to sustain. He would keep control of it and try to capture the spies at the same time. It was a brutal assignment. His right eye was beginning to twitch the way it did during final examinations at Cambridge, and he recognized the early symptoms of nervous exhaustion.

Partridge was the code name of a degenerate lorry driver whose routes happened to take him into restricted military zones in Suffolk, Kent, and East Sussex. He subscribed to the beliefs of Sir Oswald Mosley, the British Fascist, and he used the money he made from spying to buy whores. Sometimes he brought the girls along on his trips so they could give him sex while he drove. He liked Karl Becker because Becker always had a young girl stashed away and he was always willing to share-even with the likes of Partridge.

But Partridge existed only in Vicary's imagination, on the airwaves, and in the minds of his German control officers in Hamburg. Luftwaffe surveillance photos had detected new activity in southeast England, and Berlin had asked Becker to assess the enemy activity and report back within one week. Becker had given the assignment to Partridge-or, rather, Vicary had done it for him. It was the opportunity Vicary had been waiting for, an invitation from the Abwehr to transmit false intelligence about the ersatz First United States Army Group being assembled in southeast England.

Partridge-according to Vicary's concocted scenario-had driven through the Kent countryside at midday. In fact, Vicary had journeyed the same route that morning in the back of a department Rover. From his perch on the leather seat, wrapped in a traveling rug, Vicary imagined the signs of a military buildup an agent like Partridge might see. He might see more military lorries on the road. He might spot a group of American officers at the pub where he ate lunch. At the garage where he stopped for petrol, he might hear rumors that nearby roads were being widened. The information was trivial, the clues small, but totally consistent with Partridge's cover. Vicary couldn't allow him to discover something extraordinary like General Patton's field headquarters; his Abwehr controllers would never believe an agent like Partridge was capable of that. But Partridge's small clues, when incorporated into the rest of the deception scheme, would help paint the picture British Intelligence wanted the Germans to see-a massive Allied force waiting to strike across the Channel at Calais.

Vicary composed Partridge's message as he rode back into London. The report would be encoded into an Abwehr cipher and Karl Becker would transmit it to Hamburg late that evening from his cell. Vicary envisioned another night with little or no rest. When he finished the message, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window, wadding his mackintosh into a ball for a pillow. The swaying of the Rover and the low rumble of its engine lulled him into a light fitful sleep. He dreamed of France again, except this time it was Boothby-not Brendan Evans-who came to him in the field hospital. A thousand men are dead, Alfred, and it's all your fault! If you had captured the spies they'd be alive today! Vicary forced open his eyes and caught a glimpse of the passing countryside before drifting off again.

This time he is lying in bed on a fine spring morning twenty-five years ago, the morning he made love to Helen for the first time. He is spending the weekend at the sprawling estate owned by Helen's father. Through his bedroom window, Vicary can see the morning sun gradually casting a pink light over the hillsides. It is the day they plan to inform Helen's father of their plans to marry. He hears the gentle knock at the door-in his dream it sounds exactly the same-and turns his head just in time to spot Helen, beautiful and fresh from sleep, slipping into his room wearing nothing but a white nightgown. She climbs into bed next to him and kisses him on the mouth. I've been thinking about you all morning, Alfred darling. She reaches beneath the blanket, unties his pajamas, and touches him lightly with her long, beautiful fingers. Helen, I thought you wanted to wait until we were-She quiets him by kissing his lips. I don't want to discuss it anymore. We have to hurry, though. If Daddy finds out he'll kill us both. She straddles his hips, carefully, so she doesn't hurt his knee. She lifts her nightgown and guides him with her hands. There is a moment of resistance. Helen presses down harder, utters a short gasp of pain, and he is inside her. She draws his hands to her breasts. He has touched them before but only through her clothing and stiff underwear. Now they are free within her gown and they feel soft and wonderful. He tries to unbutton her gown but she won't let him. Quickly, darling, quickly. When it is over he wants her to stay-to hold her and do it all over again-but she quickly straightens her nightgown, kisses him, and hurries back to her room.

Vicary awakened in the eastern suburbs of London, a slight smile on his face. He had not found the first time with Helen disappointing, it was just different from what he expected. The sex of his youthful fantasies always involved women with enormous breasts who screamed and cried with ecstasy. But with Helen it had been slow and gentle, and instead of screaming she smiled and kissed him tenderly. It was not passionate but it was perfect. And it was perfect because he loved her desperately.

It was that way with Alice Simpson too, but for other reasons. Vicary was fond of her; he even supposed he might be in love with her, whatever that meant. More than anything else he enjoyed her company. She was intelligent and witty and, like Helen, a touch irreverent. She taught literature at a minor school for girls and wrote mediocre plays about rich people who always seemed to have cathartic, life-altering discourse while sipping pale sherry and Earl Grey tea in a handsomely furnished drawing room. She also wrote romantic novels under a pseudonym, which Vicary, while not a fan of the genre, thought were rather good. Once Lillian Walford, his secretary at University College, caught him reading one of Alice Simpson's books. The next day she brought him a stack of Barbara Cartland novels. Vicary was mortified. The characters in Alice's novels, when they made love, all heard waves crashing and felt the heavens raining down on them. In real life she was shy and tender and somewhat ticklish, and she always insisted on making love in the dark. More than once Vicary closed his eyes and saw the image of Helen in her white nightgown bathed in morning sunlight.

His relationship with Alice Simpson had lapsed with the war. They still spoke at least once a week. She had lost her flat early in the blitz and stayed in Vicary's house in Chelsea for a time. They saw each other occasionally for dinner, but it had been months since they had made love. He realized suddenly that this was the first time Alice Simpson had entered his thoughts since Edward Kenton, walking across the drive of Matilda's cottage, had spoken Helen's name.

The large, rather ugly three-story Victorian mansion was surrounded by a pair of perimeter fences and a picket to shield it from view from the outside world. Nissen huts had been erected around the ten-acre grounds to house most of the staff. Once it had been known as Latchmere House, an asylum and recuperation center for victims of shellshock during the First War. But in 1939 it was converted into MI5's main interrogation and incarceration center and assigned the military designation Camp 020.

The room into which Vicary was shown smelled of mildew, disinfectant, and vaguely of boiled cabbage. There was no place to hang his coat-the Intelligence Corps guards went to great lengths to guard against suicide-so he kept it on. Besides, the place was like a medieval dungeon: cold, damp, a breeding ground for bronchial infection. The room had one feature that made it highly functional-a tiny arrow slit of a window through which an aerial had been strung. Vicary opened the lid on the Abwehr-issue suitcase radio he had brought with him, the very one he had seized from Becker in 1940. He attached the aerial and switched on the power. The lights glowed yellow as Vicary selected the proper frequency.

He yawned and stretched. It was eleven forty-five p.m. Becker was scheduled to send his message at midnight. He thought, Damn, why does the Abwehr always choose such god-awful hours for their agents to send messages?

Karl Becker was a liar, a thief, and a sexual deviant-a man without morals or loyalty. Yet he could be charming and intelligent, and over the years Becker and Vicary had developed something approaching a professional friendship. He came into the room, sandwiched between a pair of hulking guards, hands cuffed. The guards removed the cuffs and wordlessly went out. Becker smiled and stuck out his hand. Vicary shook it; it was cool as cellar limestone.

There was a small table of rough-hewn wood and a pair of haltered old chairs. Vicary and Becker sat down on opposite sides of the table, as if facing off for a game of chess. The edges of the table had been burned black by unattended cigarettes. Vicary handed Becker a small package and, like a child, he opened it right away. In it were a half dozen packets of cigarettes and a box of Swiss chocolates.

Becker looked at the things, then at Vicary. "Cigarettes and chocolate-you're not here to seduce me, are you, Alfred?" Becker managed a small chuckle but prison life had changed him. His lustrous French suits had been replaced with a dour gray overall, neatly pressed and surprisingly well fitted through the shoulders. Officially he was on a suicide watch-which Vicary thought was absurd-and he wore flimsy canvas slippers with no laces. His skin, once deeply tanned, had faded to a dungeon white. His taut little body had assumed a sudden discipline imposed by small places; gone were the flailing arms and abandoned laughter that Vicary had seen in the old surveillance photographs. He sat ramrod straight, as though someone were holding a gun to his back, and arranged the chocolate, cigarettes, and matches as if he were laying down a boundary across which Vicary was not to venture.

Becker opened a packet of cigarettes and tapped out two of them, giving one to Vicary and keeping one for himself. He struck a match and held it out to Vicary before lighting his own cigarette. They sat in silence for a while, each studying his own spot on the cell wall-old chums who have told every story they know and now are content just to be in each other's presence. Becker savored his cigarette, rolling the smoke on his tongue like an excellent Bordeaux before blowing it in a slender stream at the low stone ceiling. In the tiny chamber, smoke gathered overhead like storm clouds.

"Please send my love to Harry," Becker finally said.

"I will."

"He's a good man-a bit on the dogged side, like all policemen. But he's not a bad sort."

"I'd be lost without him."

"And how's brother Boothby?"

Vicary let out a long breath. "As ever."

"We all have our Nazis, Alfred."

"We're thinking of sending him over to the other side."

Becker, laughing, used the stub of his cigarette to light another. "I see you've brought my radio," he said. "What heroic deed have I done for the Third Reich now?"

"You've broken into Number Ten and stolen all the prime minister's private papers."

Becker threw his head back and emitted a short, brutal burst of laughter. "I hope I'm demanding more money from those cheap bastards! And not the counterfeit that got me into trouble last time."

"Of course."

Becker looked at the radio, then at Vicary. "In the good old days you would have left a revolver on the table and let me do the deed myself. Now you bring a radio made by some fine, upstanding German company and let me kill myself a dot and a dash at a time."

"It is a terrible world in which we live, Karl. But no one forced you to become a spy."

"Better than the Wehrmacht," Becker said. "I'm an old man, like you, Alfred. I would be conscripted and sent off to the East to fight the fucking Ivans. No, thank you. I'll wait out the war right here in my pleasant little English sanitarium."

Vicary glanced at his watch-ten minutes until Becker was scheduled to go on the air. He reached inside his pocket and withdrew the coded message Becker was to send. Then he took out the photograph taken from the passport of the Dutch woman named Christa Kunst. A look of distant recollection flashed across Becker's face, then dissipated.

"You know who she is, don't you, Karl?"

"You've found Anna," he said, smiling. "Well done, Alfred. Well done indeed. Bravo!"

Vicary sat like a man straining to hear distant music, hands folded on the table, making no notes. He knew it was best to ask as few questions as possible, best to allow Becker to lead him where he wanted. Like a deer stalker, Vicary made no movements, stayed downwind. His cigarette, untouched, burned to gray dust in the metal ashtray at his elbow. Through the arrow-slit window he could hear an evening rainstorm smacking on the exercise yard. As always Becker started the story somewhere in the middle and with himself. He held his body with a regimental stillness for a time, but as the story built he began waving his arms and using his precise little fingers to weave a tapestry before Vicary's eyes. Like all Becker monologues there were blind alleys and detours for accounts of bravery, moneymaking, and sexual conquest. At times he would lapse into a long speculative silence; at other times he would tell it so quickly he would be overcome with a fit of coughing. "It's the goddamned damp in my cell," he said by way of explanation. "That's one thing you English do very well.

"People like me, they get almost no training," he said. "Oh, sure, a few lectures by some idiots in Berlin who've never seen England except on a map. This is how you estimate the size of an army, they tell you. This is how you use your radio. This is how you bite into your suicide capsule in the highly unlikely event that MI-Five kicks down your door. Then they send you off to England in a boat or a plane to win the war for the Fuhrer."

He paused to light another cigarette and open the box of chocolates. "I was lucky. I was posing as a legal. I came by plane with a Swiss passport. You know what they did to another fellow? Put him ashore in Sussex in a rubber raft. But the U-boat left France without special unmarked Abwehr rafts. They had to use one of the U-boat's life rafts with a Kriegsmarine insignia on it. Can you believe such a thing?"

Vicary could believe it; the Abwehr was horrendously slipshod with the way it prepared and inserted its agents into England. He remembered the boy he pulled off the Cornish beach in September 1940. The Special Branch men who searched him found in his pocket a packet of matches from a popular Berlin nightclub. Then there was the case of Gosta Caroli, a Swedish citizen who parachuted into Northamptonshire near the village of Denton. He was discovered by an Irish farmhand named Paddy Daly, sleeping beneath a hedge. He wore a decent suit of gray flannel and a tie knotted continental style. Caroli admitted he had parachuted into England and handed over his automatic pistol and three hundred pounds in cash. The local authorities passed him on to MI5 and he was promptly taken to Camp 020.

Becker popped one of the chocolates into his mouth and held the box out to Vicary. "You British took the espionage business more seriously than we Germans. You had to because you were weak. You had to use deception and trickery to mask your frailty. But now you've got the Abwehr by the balls."

"But there were others they took more care with," Vicary said.

"Yes, there were others."

"Different kinds of agents."

"Absolutely," Becker said as he dug out another chocolate. "These are delicious, Alfred. Are you sure you won't have one?"

Becker was a surprisingly precise keyer-precise and very fast. Vicary attributed this to the fact that he was a classically trained violinist before his life took whatever unfortunate turn it was that landed him where he was now. Vicary listened on a spare pair of headphones as Becker identified himself and waited for the confirmation signal from the operator in Hamburg. As always it gave Vicary a brief chill. He took enormous pleasure from the fact that he was deceiving the enemy-lying to him so skillfully. He enjoyed the intimate contact: being able to hear the enemy's voice, even if it was just an electronic bleep amid a vapor of atmospheric hiss. Vicary imagined how appalled he would feel if he were the one being deceived. For some reason he found himself thinking of Helen.

The Hamburg operator ordered Becker to proceed. Becker looked down at Vicary's message and quickly tapped it out. When he was finished he waited for Hamburg to confirm, then signed off. Vicary slipped off his headphones and shut off the radio. Becker would sulk for a while-he always did after sending one of Vicary's Double Cross messages-like a man who feels the hot flash of guilt after copulating with his mistress and wishes to be alone with his troubled thoughts. Vicary always suspected Becker was ashamed of betraying his own service-that his rantings about Abwehr bumbling and incompetence were just an attempt to conceal his own guilt over being a failure and a coward. Not that he had much of a choice; the first time Becker refused to send one of Vicary's messages he would be marched off to Wandsworth Prison for an appointment with the hangman.

Vicary feared he had lost him. Becker smoked, and he ate a few more chocolates without offering any to Vicary. Vicary slowly packed away the radio.

"I saw her once in Berlin," Becker said suddenly. "She was immediately separated from the rest of us mere mortals. I don't want you to quote me on this, Alfred-I'm just going to tell you what I heard. The rumors, the talk. If it doesn't turn out to be totally accurate I don't want Stephens to come in here and start throwing me off the fucking walls."

Vicary nodded sympathetically. Stephens was Colonel R.W.G. Stephens, the commandant of Camp 020, better known as Tin-Eye. A former Indian Army officer, Stephens was monocled, maniacal, and always dressed immaculately in a forage cap and uniform of the Peshawar Rifles. He was half German and spoke the language fluently. He was also detested by the prisoners and MI5 staff alike. Once he had given Vicary a thorough public dressing-down because he arrived five minutes late for an interrogation. Even senior staff like Boothby were not immune to his tirades and fits of vile temper.

"You have my word, Karl," Vicary said, taking his place at the table again.

"They said her name was Anna Steiner-that her father was some sort of aristocrat. Prussian, rich bastard, dueling scar on the cheek, dabbled in diplomacy. You know the type, don't you?" Becker didn't wait for an answer. "Christ, she was beautiful. Tall as hell. Spoke perfectly accented British English. The rumors said she had an English mother. That she was living in Spain the summer of 'thirty-six, fucking some Spanish Fascist bastard named Romero. Turns out Senor Romero was a talent spotter for the Abwehr. He calls Berlin, collects a finder's fee, and hands her over. The Abwehr puts the screws to her. They tell lovely Anna that her Fatherland needs her; if she doesn't cooperate, Papa von Steiner gets shipped off to a concentration camp."

"Who was her control officer?"

"I don't know his name. Sour-looking bastard. Smart, like you, only ruthless."

"Was his name Vogel?"

"I don't know-could be."

"You never saw her again?"

"No, just that once."

"So what happened to her?"

Becker was overcome by another fit of coughing that a fresh cigarette seemed to cure.

"I'm telling you what I heard, not what I know. You understand the difference?"

"I understand the difference."

"We heard there was a camp, somewhere in the mountains south of Munich. Very isolated, all surrounding roads closed. Hell for the locals. According to the rumors it was a place where they sent a few special agents-the ones they planned to bury deep."

"She was one of those agents?"

"Yes, Alfred. We've covered that ground already. Stay with me, please." Becker was digging through the chocolates again. "It was as if an English village had dropped from the sky and landed in the middle of Bavaria. There was a pub, a small hotel, cottages, even an Anglican church. Each agent was assigned to a cottage for a minimum stay of six months. In the morning they read London newspapers at the cafe over tea and buns. They did their shopping in English and listened to popular radio programs of the day on the BBC. Me, I never heard It's That Man Again until I came to London."

"Go on."

"They had special codes and special rendezvous procedures. They were given more weapons training. Silent killing. At night they even sent the boys English-speaking whores so they could fuck in English."

"And what about the woman?"

"They say she was fucking her control officer-what did you say his name was, Vogel? Again, it was only a rumor."

"Did you ever meet her in Britain?"

"No."

"I want the truth, Karl!" Vicary snapped, so loudly that one of the guards stuck his head inside the door to make sure there was no problem.

"I'm telling you the truth! Jesus Christ, you're Alfred Vicary one minute and Heinrich Himmler the next. I never saw her again."

Vicary switched to German. He didn't want the guards eavesdropping on the conversation.

"Do you know her cover name?"

"No." Becker responded in the same language.

"Do you know her address?"

"No."

"Do you know if she's operating in London?"

"She could be operating on the moon for all I know."

Vicary exhaled loudly in frustration. It was all interesting information but, like the discovery of Beatrice Pymm's murder, it put him no closer to his quarry. "Have you told me everything you know about her, Karl?"

Becker smiled. "She's supposed to be an incredible fuck." Becker noticed the color in Vicary's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Alfred. Jesus Christ, I forget what a prude you are sometimes."

Still speaking in German, Vicary said, "Why haven't you told us this before-the business about the special agents?"

"But I have, Alfred old man."

"Who have you told? You've never told me."

"I told Boothby."

Vicary felt blood streaming to his face, and his heart began to beat furiously. Boothby? Why in the world would Boothby be interrogating Karl Becker? And why would he do it without Vicary being present? Becker was his agent. Vicary arrested him, Vicary turned him, Vicary ran him.

His face calm, Vicary said, "When did you tell Boothby?"

"I don't know. It's hard to keep track of time in here. A couple of months ago. September maybe. No, maybe it was October. Yes, I believe October."

"What did you tell him, exactly?"

"I told him about the agents, I told him about the camp."

"Did you tell him about the woman?"

"Yes, Alfred, I told him everything. He's a vicious bastard. I don't like him. I'd watch out for him if I were you."

"Was there anyone with him?"

"Yes, tall fellow. Handsome, like a film star. Blond, blue eyes. A real German superman. Thin, though, skinny as a stick."

"Did the stick have a name?"

Becker threw his head back and made a show of searching his memory.

"Christ, it was a funny name. A tool or something." Becker pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, something you use in the house. Mop? Bucket? No, Broome! That's it, Broome! Imagine that-the guy looks like a fucking stick and calls himself Broome. You English have a marvelous sense of humor sometimes."

Vicary had collected the suitcase radio and was rapping his knuckle against the thick door.

"Why don't you leave the radio, Alfred? It gets lonely here sometimes."

"Sorry, Karl."

The door opened and Vicary stepped through. "Listen, Alfred, the cigarettes and chocolate were wonderful, but next time bring a girl, will you?"

Vicary went to the chief guard's office and asked for the logbooks for October and November. It took him a few moments, but he found the entry he was looking for.

DATE: 5-10-43

PRISONER: Becker, K.

NUMBER OF VISITORS: 2

NAMES/DEPT: No, thank you.

25

"My God, but it's cold this morning," said Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg.

"At least you still have a roof over your head," replied Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. "The Halifaxes and Lancasters had quite a time last night. Hundreds dead, thousands homeless. So much for the invulnerability of our illustrious thousand-year Reich."

Canaris looked to Schellenberg for reaction. As always, he was struck by how young the man was. At just thirty-three he was head of Section VI of the Sicherheitsdienst-better known as the SD-the intelligence and security service of the SS. Section VI was responsible for gathering intelligence on the Reich's enemies in foreign countries, an assignment very similar to that of the Abwehr. As a result, the two men were locked in a desperate competition.

They were a mismatched pair: the short, laconic, white-haired old admiral who spoke with a slight lisp; the handsome, energetic, and thoroughly ruthless young brigadefuhrer. The son of a Saarland piano maker, Schellenberg was personally recruited to the Nazi security apparatus by Reinhard Heydrich, the chief of the SD who was assassinated by Czechoslovakian resistance fighters in May 1942. One of the Nazi Party's bright lights, Schellenberg thrived in its dangerous, paranoid atmosphere. His cathedral-like office was thoroughly bugged and he had machine guns built into his desk, giving him the ability to kill a threatening visitor with the press of a button. On those rare occasions when he permitted himself to relax, Schellenberg liked to spend time with his elaborate collection of pornography. Once, he displayed the photographs to Canaris the way a man might show snapshots of his family, boasting about the pictures he choreographed himself to satisfy his own bizarre sexual appetites. On his hand Schellenberg wore a ring with a blue stone, beneath which lay a capsule of cyanide. He had also been fitted with a false tooth containing a lethal measure of the poison.

Now, Schellenberg had just two goals: destroy Canaris and the Abwehr and bring Adolf Hitler the most important secret of the war, the time and place of the Anglo-American invasion of France. Schellenberg had nothing but disdain for the Abwehr and the cluster of old officers surrounding Canaris, whom he derisively referred to as Santa Clauses. Canaris knew perfectly well Schellenberg was gunning for him, yet between the two there existed an uneasy truce. Schellenberg treated the old admiral with deference and respect; Canaris genuinely admired the brash, brilliant young officer and enjoyed his company.

Which was why they began most mornings the same way, riding side by side on horseback through the Tiergarten. It gave each man a chance to check up on what the other was doing-to spar, to probe for weakness. Canaris liked their rides for one other reason. He knew that for at least one hour each morning the young general was not actively plotting his demise.

"There you go again, Herr Admiral," Schellenberg said. "Always looking at the dark side of things. I suppose that makes you a cynic, doesn't it."

"I'm not a cynic, Herr Brigadefuhrer. I'm a skeptic. There's an important difference."

Schellenberg laughed. "That's the difference between us in the Sicherheitsdienst and you old-school types in the Abwehr. We see nothing but endless possibility. You see nothing but danger. We are bold, not afraid to take risks. You prefer to have your head in the sand-no offense, Herr Admiral."

"None taken, my young friend. You are entitled to your opinion, however misinformed it might be."

Canaris's horse threw back its head and snorted. The breath froze into a cloud, then drifted away on the gentle morning wind. Canaris looked around him at the devastation of the Tiergarten. Most of the lime and chestnut trees were gone, burned by Allied incendiary bombs. Ahead of them, on the pathway, was a bomb crater the size of a Kubelwagen. Thousands more were scattered throughout the park. Canaris, tugging on the reins, led his horse around it. A pair of Schellenberg's security men trailed softly after them on foot. Another walked a few feet in front of them, head slowly wheeling from side to side. Canaris knew there were more he could not see, even with his well-trained eye.

"Something very interesting landed on my desk yesterday evening," Schellenberg said.

"Oh, really? What was her name?"

Schellenberg, laughing, spurred the horse into a light trot.

"I have a source in London. He did some work for the NKVD a long time ago, including recruiting an Oxford student who is now an officer inside MI-Five. He still talks to the man from time to time, and he hears things. He passes those things on to me. The MI-Five officer is a Russian agent, but I share in the harvest, so to speak."

"Remarkable," Canaris said dryly.

"Churchill and Roosevelt don't trust Stalin. They keep him in the dark. They have refused to tell him anything about the time and place of the invasion. They think Stalin might leak the secret to us so the Allies will be destroyed in France. With the British and Americans out of the fight, Stalin would try to finish us off alone and grab all of Europe for himself."

"I've heard that theory. I'm not sure I put much stock in it."

"In any case, my agent says MI-Five is in crisis. He says your man Vogel has mounted an operation that has scared the pants off them. The investigation is being led by a case officer named Vicary. Ever heard of him?"

"Alfred Vicary," Canaris said. "A former professor at University College in London."

"Very impressive," Schellenberg said genuinely.

"Part of being an effective intelligence officer is knowing your opponent, Herr Brigadefuhrer." Canaris hesitated, allowing time for Schellenberg to absorb the jab. "I'm glad Kurt is giving them a run for their money."

"The situation is so tense Vicary has met with Churchill personally to update him on the progress of his investigation."

"That's not so surprising, Herr Brigadefuhrer. Vicary and Churchill are old friends." Canaris cast a sideways glance at Schellenberg to see if his face registered any trace of surprise. Their conversations often turned into point-scoring contests, each man trying to surprise the other with tidbits of intelligence. "Vicary is a well-known historian. I've read his work. I'm surprised you haven't. He has a keen mind. He thinks like Churchill. He was warning the world about you and your friends long before anyone took notice."

"So what is Vogel up to? Perhaps the SD can be of some assistance."

Canaris permitted himself a rare but short burst of laughter.

"Please, Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg. If you're going to be so transparent, these morning rides will lose their appeal very quickly. Besides, if you want to know what Vogel is doing, just ask the chicken farmer. I know he's bugged our telephones and planted his spies inside Tirpitz Ufer."

"Interesting you should say that. I raised that very question with Reichsfuhrer Himmler over dinner last night. It seems Vogel is very careful. Very secretive. I hear he doesn't even keep his files in the Abwehr central registry."

"Vogel is a true paranoid and extremely cautious. He keeps everything in his office. And I wouldn't think about trying to get rough with him. He has an assistant named Werner Ulbricht who's seen the worst of this war. The man's always cleaning his Lugers. Even I don't go near Vogel's office."

Schellenberg pulled back on the reins until his horse came to a stop. The morning was still and quiet. In the distance came the growl of the morning's first traffic along the Wilhelmstrasse.

"Vogel is the kind of man we like in the SD-intelligent, driven."

"There's only one problem," Canaris said. "Vogel's a human being. He has a heart and a conscience. Something tells me he wouldn't fit in with your crowd."

"Why don't you let the two of us meet? Perhaps we can think of some way to pool our resources for the good of the Reich. There's no reason for the SD and the Abwehr to be always at each other's throats, like this."

Canaris smiled. "We're at each other's throats, Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg, because you are convinced I am a traitor to the Reich and because you tried to have me arrested."

Which was true. Schellenberg had assembled a file containing dozens of allegations of treason committed by Canaris. In 1942 he gave the file to Heinrich Himmler, but Himmler took no action. Canaris kept dossiers too, and Schellenberg suspected the Abwehr file on Himmler contained material the Reichsfuhrer would rather not be made public.

"That was a long time ago, Herr Admiral. It's in the past."

Canaris jabbed the heel of his riding boot into his horse and they started moving again. The stables appeared in the distance.

"May I be so bold as to offer an interpretation of your offer to be of assistance, Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg?"

"Of course."

"You would like to be a part of this operation for one of two reasons. Reason one, you could sabotage the operation in order to further lower the reputation of the Abwehr. Or, reason two, you could steal Vogel's intelligence and claim all the credit and glory for yourself."

Schellenberg slowly shook his head. "This mistrust between us, such a pity. So distressing."

"Yes, isn't it."

They rode together into the stables and dismounted. A pair of stable boys scampered out and led the horses away.

"A pleasure as always," Canaris said. "Shall we take breakfast together?"

"I'd love to, but I'm afraid duty calls."

"Oh?"

"A meeting with Himmler and Hitler, eight o'clock sharp."

"Lucky you. What's the topic?"

Walter Schellenberg smiled and laid his gloved hand on the older man's shoulder.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"How was the Old Fox this morning?" Adolf Hitler said as Walter Schellenberg walked through the door at precisely eight o'clock. Himmler was there, sitting on the overstuffed sofa sipping coffee. It was the image Schellenberg liked to present to his superiors-too busy to arrive for a meeting early and engage in small talk, disciplined enough to be prompt.

"As cagey as ever," Schellenberg said, pouring himself a cup of the steaming coffee. There was a jug with real milk. Even the staff at the SD had trouble securing a steady supply these days. "He refused to tell me anything about Vogel's operation. He claims he knows nothing about it. He has permitted Vogel to work under extremely secretive circumstances, allowing himself to be kept in the dark about the details."

"Perhaps it's better that way," Himmler said, his face impassive, his voice betraying no emotion whatsoever. "The less the good admiral knows, the less he can betray to the enemy."

"I've done some investigating of my own," Schellenberg said. "I know that Vogel has sent at least one new agent into England. He had to use the Luftwaffe for the drop, and the pilot who flew the mission was very cooperative." Schellenberg opened his briefcase and withdrew two copies of the same file, handing one to Hitler and the other to Himmler. "The agent's name is Horst Neumann. The Reichsfuhrer may remember that business in Paris some time back. An SS man was killed in a bar in Paris. Neumann was the man involved in that."

Himmler let the file fall from his hands onto the coffee table around which they were seated. "For the Abwehr to use such a man is a direct slap in the face to the SS and the memory of the man he murdered! It shows Vogel's contempt for the party and the Fuhrer."

Hitler was still reading the file and seemed genuinely interested in it. "Perhaps Neumann is simply the right man for the job, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Look at his dossier: born in England, decorated member of the Fallschirmjager, Knight's Cross, Oak Leaves. On paper a very remarkable man."

The Fuhrer was more lucid and reasonable than Schellenberg had seen him in some time.

"I agree," Schellenberg said. "Except for the one blight on his record, Neumann appears to be an extraordinary soldier."

Himmler cast a cadaverous glance at Schellenberg. He didn't appreciate being contradicted in front of the Fuhrer, no matter how brilliant Schellenberg might be.

"Perhaps we should make our move against Canaris now," Himmler said. "Remove him, place Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg in charge, and combine the Abwehr and the SD into one powerful intelligence agency. That way Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg can oversee Vogel's operation personally. Things seem to have a way of going awry where Admiral Canaris is involved."

Again, Hitler disagreed with his most trusted aide. "If Schellenberg's Russian friend is correct, this man Vogel seems to have the British on the run. To step in now would be a mistake. No, Herr Reichsfuhrer, Canaris remains in place for the time being. Perhaps he's doing something right for a change."

Hitler stood up.

"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have other matters that demand my attention."

Two Mercedes staff cars were waiting at the curbside, engines running. There was an awkward moment while deciding whose car to take, but Schellenberg quietly relented and climbed in the back of Himmler's. He felt vulnerable when he wasn't surrounded by his security men, even when he was with Himmler. During the short drive, Schellenberg's armored Mercedes never strayed more than a few feet from the rear bumper of Himmler's limousine.

"An impressive performance as always, Herr Brigadefuhrer," Himmler said. Schellenberg knew his superior well enough to realize the remark was not meant as a compliment. Himmler, the second-most powerful man in Germany, was peeved at being contradicted in front of the Fuhrer.

"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"The Fuhrer wants the secret of the invasion so badly it is clouding his judgment," Himmler said matter-of-factly. "It is our job to protect him. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Herr Brigadefuhrer?"

"Absolutely."

"I want to know what Vogel is playing at. If the Fuhrer won't let us do it from the inside, we'll have to do it from the outside. Put Vogel and his assistant Ulbricht under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Use every means at your disposal to penetrate Tirpitz Ufer. Also, find some way of getting a man into the radio center at Hamburg. Vogel has to communicate with his agents. I want someone listening to what's being said."

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"And, Walter, don't look so glum. We'll get our hands around the Abwehr soon enough. Don't worry. It will be all yours."

"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"Unless, of course, you ever contradict me in front of the Fuhrer again."

Himmler rapped on the glass partition so softly it was almost inaudible. The car pulled to the side of the curb, as did Schellenberg's, directly behind them. The young general sat motionless until one of his security men appeared at the door to accompany him on the ten-foot walk back to his own car.

26

Catherine Blake was by now thoroughly regretting her decision to go to the Popes for help. Yes, they had given her a meticulous account of Peter Jordan's life in London. But it had come at a very steep price. She had been threatened with extortion, drawn into a bizarre sexual game, and been forced to murder two people. Now the police were involved. The murder of a prominent black-marketeer and underworld figure like Vernon Pope was big news in all the London newspapers. The police had misled the news-papermen, though-they said the victims had been found with their throats slit, not stabbed through the eye and through the heart. They were obviously trying to filter out crank leads from real ones. Or was MI5 already involved? According to the newspapers, the police wanted to question Robert Pope but had been unable to find him. Catherine could be of assistance. Pope was sitting twenty feet from her in the Savoy bar, angrily nursing a whisky.

Why was Pope there? Catherine thought she knew the answer. Pope was there because he suspected Catherine was involved in his brother's murder. Finding her would not be difficult for him. Pope knew Catherine was looking for Peter Jordan. All he had to do was go to the places frequented by Peter Jordan, and there was a good chance Catherine would appear.

She turned her back to him. She was not afraid of Robert Pope; he was more a nuisance than a threat. As long as she remained in full view he would be reluctant to take action against her. Catherine had expected this. As a precaution she had started carrying her pistol at all times. It was necessary but annoying. She had to carry a larger handbag to conceal the weapon. It was heavy and banged against her hip when she walked. The gun, ironically, was also a threat to her security. Try explaining to a London police officer why you're carrying a German-made Mauser pistol equipped with a silencer.

Deciding whether to kill Robert Pope was not Catherine Blake's biggest worry, for at that moment Peter Jordan walked into the bar of the Savoy along with Shepherd Ramsey.

She wondered which man would make the first move. Things were about to get interesting.

"I'll say one good thing about this war," Shepherd Ramsey said, as he and Peter Jordan sat down at a corner table. "It's done wonders for my net worth. While I've been over here playing hero, my stocks have been soaring. I've made more money during the past six months than I did for ten years working at Dad's insurance company."

"Why don't you tell old Dad to shove off?"

"He'd be lost without me."

Shepherd signaled the waiter and ordered a martini. Jordan ordered a double scotch.

"Tough day at the office, honey?"

"Brutal."

"The rumor mill says you're working on a diabolical new secret weapon."

"I'm an engineer, Shep. I build bridges and roads."

"Any idiot could do that. You're not over here building a goddamned highway."

"No, I'm not."

"So when are you going to tell me what you're working on?"

"I can't. You know I can't."

"It's just me, old Shep. You can tell me anything."

"I'd love to, Shepherd, but if I told you I'd have to kill you, and then Sally would be a widow and Kippy would have no father."

"Kippy's in trouble at Buckley again. Goddamned kid gets in more trouble than I did."

"Now that's saying something."

"The headmaster's threatening to throw him out. Sally had to go over the other day and listen to a lecture about how Kippy needs a strong male influence in his life."

"I never knew he had one."

"Very funny, asshole. Sally's having trouble with the car. Says the thing needs tires but she can't buy new ones because of rationing. Says they couldn't open up the Oyster Bay house for Christmas this year because there was no fuel oil to heat the damned thing."

Shepherd noticed Jordan was studying his drink.

"I'm sorry, Peter. Am I boring you?"

"No more than usual."

"I just thought some news from home might cheer you up."

"Who says I need cheering up?"

"Peter Jordan, I haven't seen that look on your face in a very long time. Who is she?"

"I have no idea."

"Would you like to explain that?"

"I bumped into her in the blackout, literally. Knocked her groceries out of her arms. It was very embarrassing. But there was something about her."

"Did you get her telephone number?"

"No."

"How about a name?"

"Yes, I got a name."

"Well, that's something. Jesus Christ! I'd say you're a little out of practice. Tell me how she looked."

Peter Jordan told him: tall, brown hair falling across her shoulders, a wide mouth, beautiful cheekbones, and the most spectacular eyes he had ever seen.

"That's interesting," Shepherd said.

"Why?"

"Because that woman is standing right over there."

Men in uniform generally made Catherine Blake nervous. But as Peter Jordan crossed the bar toward her she thought she had never seen a man look quite so handsome as he did in his dark blue American naval uniform. He was a strikingly attractive man-she had not noticed how attractive the previous evening. His uniform jacket fitted him perfectly through his square shoulders and chest, as though it had been cut for him by a tailor in Manhattan. He was trim at the waist, and his walk had a smooth confidence about it that only self-possessed, successful men have. His hair was dark, nearly black, and in striking contrast to his pale complexion. His eyes were a distracting shade of green-pale green, like a cat's-his mouth soft and sensuous. It broke into an easy smile when he noticed she was looking at him.

"I believe I bumped into you in the blackout last night," he said, and stuck out his hand. "My name is Peter Jordan."

She took his hand, then absently allowed her fingernails to trail across the palm of his hand when she released her grip.

"My name is Catherine Blake," she said.

"Yes, I remember. You look as though you're waiting for someone."

"I am, but it appears he's stood me up."

"Well, I'd say he's a damned fool then."

"He's just an old friend, actually."

"Can I buy you that drink now?" Jordan asked.

Catherine looked at Jordan and smiled; then she glanced across the bar at Robert Pope, who was watching them intently.

"Actually, I would love to go somewhere a little more quiet to talk. Do you still have all that food at your house?"

"A couple of eggs, some cheese, maybe a can of tomatoes. And lots of wine."

"Sounds like the makings of a wonderful omelet to me."

"Let me get my coat."

Robert Pope, standing at the bar, watched them as they slipped through the crowd and into the salon. He calmly finished his drink, waited a few seconds, then left the bar and trailed quietly after them. Outside the hotel, they were shown into a cab by the doorman. Pope, walking quickly across the street, watched the cab drive away. Dicky Dobbs was sitting behind the wheel of the van. He started the motor as Pope climbed inside. The van slipped away from the curb, into the evening traffic. No need to rush, Pope told Dicky. He knew where they were headed. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a few minutes as Dicky drove westward toward Jordan's town house in Kensington.

During the taxi ride to Peter Jordan's house, Catherine Blake realized quite suddenly that she was nervous. It was not because a man who possessed the most important secret of the war was sitting next to her. She was just not very good at this-the rituals of courtship and dating. For the first time in a very long time she thought about her appearance. She knew she was an attractive woman-a beautiful woman. She knew most men desired her. But during her time in Britain she had gone to great lengths to conceal her appearance, to blend in. She had adopted the look of an aggrieved war widow: heavy dark stockings that hid the shape of her long legs, poor-fitting skirts that masked the curve of her hips, chunky mannish sweaters that concealed her rounded breasts. Tonight, she was dressed in a striking gown she had bought before the war, appropriate for drinks at the Savoy. Even so, for the first time in her life, Catherine worried about whether she was pretty enough.

Something else was bothering Catherine. Why did it take circumstances like these for her finally to be with a man like Peter Jordan? He was intelligent and attractive and successful and-well, apparently normal. Most of the other men Catherine had known would be behaving very differently by now. She remembered the first time with Maria Romero's father, Emilio. He had not bothered with flowers or romance; he barely even kissed her. He just pushed her down onto the bed and fucked her. And Catherine had not minded. In fact, she rather liked it that way. Sex was not something to be done out of love and respect. She didn't even enjoy the conquest. For Catherine it was an act of pure physical gratification. Emilio Romero understood; unfortunately, Emilio understood many things about her.

She had given up long ago on the idea of falling in love, getting married, and having children. Her obsessive independence and deeply ingrained mistrust of people would never allow her to make the emotional commitment to a marriage; her selfishness and self-indulgence would never permit her to care for a child. She never felt safe with a man unless she was in total control, emotionally and physically. These feelings manifested themselves in the act of sex itself. Catherine had discovered long ago that she was incapable of having an orgasm unless she was on top.

She had formed an image of the kind of life she wanted for herself. When the war was over she would go somewhere warm-the Costa del Sol, the south of France, Italy perhaps-and buy herself a small villa overlooking the sea. She would live alone and cut off her hair and lie on the beach until her skin was deep brown, and if she needed a man she would bring him to her villa and use his body until she was satisfied and then she would throw him out and sit by her fire and be alone again with the sound of the sea. Perhaps she would let Maria stay with her sometimes. Maria was the only one who understood her. That's why it hurt Catherine so much that Maria had betrayed her.

Catherine didn't hate herself for the way she was, nor did she love herself. On the few occasions when she had reflected on her own psychology, she had thought of herself as a rather interesting character. She had also come to the realization that she was perfectly suited to being a spy-emotionally, physically, and intellectually. Vogel had recognized this, and so had Emilio. She loathed them both but she could not find fault with their conclusions. When she gazed at her reflection in the mirror now, one word came to mind: spy.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of Jordan's house. He took her hand to help her out of the car, then paid off the driver. He unlocked the front door to the house and showed her inside. He closed the door before turning on the lights-blackout rules. For an instant Catherine felt disoriented and exposed. She didn't like being in a strange place with a strange man in the dark. Jordan quickly switched on the lights and illuminated the room.

"My goodness," she said. "How did you get a billet like this? I thought all American officers were packed into hotels and boardinghouses."

Catherine knew the answer, of course. But she needed to ask the question. It was rare for an American officer to be living alone in such a place.

"My father-in-law bought the house years ago. He spent a great deal of time in London on both business and pleasure and decided he wanted a pied-a-terre here. I have to admit I'm glad he bought it. The thought of spending the war packed like a sardine in Grosvenor House really doesn't appeal to me. Here, let me take your coat."

He helped her off with her overcoat and went to hang it in the closet. Catherine surveyed the drawing room. It was handsomely furnished with the sort of deep leather couches and chairs one finds in a private London club. The walls were paneled; the wood floors were stained a deep brown and polished to a lustrous shine. The rugs scattered about were of excellent quality. There was one unique feature about the room-the walls were covered with photographs of bridges.

"You're married, then," Catherine said, making sure there was a slight note of disappointment in her voice.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, returning to the room.

"You said your father-in-law owns this house."

"I suppose I should say my former father-in-law. My wife was killed in an automobile accident before the war."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to-"

"Please, it's fine. It was a long time ago."

She nodded toward the wall and said, "You like bridges."

"You might say that, yes. I build them."

Catherine walked across the room and looked at one of the photographs close up. It was the Hudson River bridge for which Jordan had been named Engineer of the Year in 1938.

"You designed these?"

"Actually, architects design them. I'm an engineer. They put a design on paper and I tell them whether the thing will stand up or not. Sometimes I make them change the design. Sometimes, if it's terrific like that one, I find a way to make it work."

"Sounds challenging."

"It can be," he said. "But sometimes it can be tedious and dull, and it makes for boring conversation at cocktail parties."

"I didn't know the navy needed bridges."

"They don't." Jordan hesitated. "I'm sorry. I can't discuss my-"

"Please. Believe me, I understand the rules."

"I could do the cooking, but I couldn't guarantee that the food would be edible."

"Just show me where the kitchen is."

"Through that door. If you don't mind, I'd like to change. I still can't get used to wearing this damned uniform."

"Certainly."

She watched his next movements very carefully. He removed his keys from his trouser pocket and unlocked a door. That would be his study. He switched on the light and was inside for less than a minute. When he emerged Jordan was no longer carrying his briefcase. He probably locked it inside his safe. He climbed the stairs. His bedroom was on the second floor. It was perfect. While he was sleeping upstairs she could break into his safe and photograph the contents of his briefcase. Neumann would make sure the photographs reached Berlin, and the Abwehr analysts would examine them to discover the nature of Peter Jordan's work.

She went through the doorway into the kitchen and was struck by a flash of panic. Why was he suddenly changing out of his uniform? Had she done something wrong? Made some mistake? Was he on the phone right now to MI5? Was MI5 calling Special Branch? Would he come downstairs and sweet-talk her until they broke down the door and arrested her?

Catherine forced herself to relax. It was ludicrous.

When she opened the door to the refrigerator she realized something. She didn't have the vaguest idea how to make an omelet. Maria made excellent omelets-she would just imitate everything she did. From the refrigerator she took three eggs, a small pat of butter, and a chunk of cheddar. She opened the door to the small pantry and found a tin of tomatoes and a bottle of wine. She opened it, found the wineglasses, and poured for them both. She didn't wait until Jordan returned to try the wine; it was delicious. She could taste wildflowers and lavender and apricot, and it made her think of her imaginary villa. Warm the tomatoes first-that's what Maria did, except before, in Paris, the tomatoes were fresh tomatoes, not these beastly tinned ones.

She opened the tomatoes, drained off the water, chopped them, and dropped them into a hot pan. The kitchen immediately took on the smell of the tomatoes, and she drank some more wine before cracking and beating the eggs and grating the cheese into a bowl. She had to smile-the domestic routine of making dinner for a man felt so odd to her. Then she thought, Perhaps Kurt Vogel should add a cooking course to his little Abwehr spy school.

Jordan set the table in the dining room while Catherine finished with the omelet. He had changed into cotton khaki trousers and a sweater, and Catherine was again struck by his looks. She wanted to let down her hair-to do something to make herself more attractive to him-but she stayed within the character she had created for herself. The omelet was surprisingly good and they both ate it very quickly before it could go cold, washing it down with the wine, a prewar Bordeaux Jordan had brought to London from New York. By the end of the meal Catherine felt pleasant and relaxed. Jordan seemed that way too. He appeared to suspect nothing-appeared to accept that their meeting was wholly coincidental.

"Have you ever been to the States?" he asked, as they cleared away the dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

"Actually, I lived in Washington for two years when I was a little girl."

"Really?"

"Yes, my father worked at the Foreign Office. He was a diplomat. He was posted in Washington in the early twenties, after the Great War. I liked it very much. Except for the heat, of course. My goodness, but Washington is oppressive in the summer! My father rented a cottage for us on the Chesapeake Bay for the summers. I have very fond memories of that time."

All true, except Catherine's father had worked for the German Foreign Ministry, not the British Foreign Office. Catherine had decided it was best to draw on as many aspects of her own life as possible.

"Is your father still a diplomat?"

"No, he died before the war."

"And your mother?"

"My mother died when I was a very little girl." Catherine stacked the dirty dishes in the sink. "I'll wash if you dry."

"Forget it. I have a woman who comes a couple of times a week. She'll be here in the morning. How about a glass of brandy?"

"That would be nice."

There were photographs in silver frames over the fireplace, and she looked at them while Jordan poured the brandy. He joined her in front of the fire and handed her one of the glasses.

"Your wife was very beautiful."

"Yes, she was. Her death was very hard on me."

"And your son? Who's caring for him now?"

"Margaret's sister, Jane."

She sipped her brandy and smiled at him. "You don't sound terribly thrilled about that."

"My God, is it that obvious?"

"Yes, it is."

"Jane and I never really got along very well. And frankly, I wish Billy wasn't in her care. She's selfish and petty and spoiled rotten, and I'm afraid she's going to make Billy the same way. But I really had no choice. The day after I joined the navy, I was sent to Washington, and two weeks after that I was flown to London."

"Billy is the image of his father," Catherine said. "I'm certain you have nothing to worry about."

Jordan smiled and said, "I hope you're right. Please, sit down."

"Are you sure? I don't want to keep you-"

"I haven't had an evening as pleasant as this in a very long time. Please stay a little longer."

They sat down next to each other on the large leather couch.

Jordan said, "So tell me how it is that an incredibly beautiful woman like you isn't married."

Catherine felt her face flush.

"My goodness, you're actually blushing. Don't tell me no one has ever told you before that you're beautiful."

She smiled and said, "No, it's just been a very long time."

"Well, that makes two of us. It's been a very long time since I've told a woman that she was beautiful. In fact, I can remember the last time. It was when I woke up and saw Margaret's face on the day she died. I never thought I could find another woman beautiful after that. Until I made a fool of myself by crashing into you in the blackout last night. You took my breath away, Catherine."

"Thank you. I can assure you the attraction was mutual."

"Is that why you didn't give me your telephone number?"

"I didn't want you to believe I was a wanton woman."

"Darn, I was hoping you were a wanton woman."

"Peter," she said, and jabbed him in the leg with her finger.

"Are you ever going to answer my question? Why aren't you married?"

Catherine stared into the fire for a moment. "I was married. My husband, Michael, was shot down over the Channel the first week of the Battle of Britain. They never were able to recover his body. I was pregnant at the time, and I lost the baby. The doctors said it was the shock of Michael's death that did it." Catherine's gaze shifted from the fire to Jordan's face. "He was handsome and brave and he was my entire world. For the longest time after his death, I never looked twice at another man. I started dating a short time ago, but nothing at all serious. And then some foolish American who wasn't using his blackout torch smashed into me on a pavement in Kensington…"

There was a long and slightly uncomfortable moment of silence. The fire was dying. Catherine could hear the sound of a rainstorm getting up and pattering against the pavement outside the window. She realized she could stay like this for quite a while, sitting next to the fire with her brandy and this kind and gentle man. My God, Catherine, what's got into you? She tried for a moment to make herself hate him but she could not. She hoped he never did anything to threaten her, anything that would force her to kill him.

She made a show of looking at her wristwatch. "My goodness, look at the time," she said. "It's eleven o'clock. I've imposed on you too long. I should really be going-"

"What were you thinking just now?" Jordan asked, as if he had not heard a word she had just said.

What was she thinking? A very good question.

"I realize you can't talk about your work, but I'm going to ask you one question and I want you to tell me the truth."

"Cross my heart."

"You're not going to run off and get yourself killed, are you?"

"No, I'm not going to get myself killed. I promise."

She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. His lips did not respond.

She pulled away, thinking, Did I make a mistake? Perhaps he wasn't ready for this.

He said, "I'm sorry. It's just been a very long time."

"It's been a very long time for me too."

"Maybe we need to try again."

She smiled and kissed him again. This time his mouth responded to hers. He pulled her close to him. She enjoyed the sensation of her breasts pressing against him.

After a moment she drew away.

"If I don't leave now I don't think I ever will."

"I'm not sure I want you to leave."

She gave him a final kiss and said, "When am I going to see you again?"

"Will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night-a proper dinner, that is? Somewhere we can dance."

"I'd love that."

"How about the Savoy again, around eight o'clock."

"That sounds perfect."

Catherine Blake was brought back to reality by the cold blast of rain and the sight of Pope and Dicky sitting in a parked van. At least they had not interfered. Perhaps they were content to watch from a distance for the time being.

The late-night traffic was light. She quickly flagged down a taxi on Brompton Road. She climbed in and asked the cabbie to take her to Victoria Station. Turning around, she saw Pope and Dicky following.

At Victoria she paid off the driver and went inside, melting into a crowd of passengers stepping from a late-arriving train. She glanced over her shoulder as Dicky Dobbs came running into the terminus, head wheeling from side to side.

Quickly, she walked out through another door, vanishing into the blackout.

27

Her cottage in Vogel's secret village is flimsy and drafty, the coldest place she has ever known. There is a fireplace, though, and in the afternoon while she studies codes and radio procedures an Abwehr man comes and lays kindling and dry fir logs for the night.

The fire has burned low, the cold is creeping into the cottage, so she rises and tosses a pair of large logs onto the embers. Vogel is lying on the floor silently behind her. He is a terrible lover: boring, selfish, all elbows and knees. Even when he tries to please her he is clumsy and rough and preoccupied. It is a wonder she has been able to seduce him at all. She has her reasons. If he falls in love with her or becomes obsessed with her, Vogel will be reluctant to send her to England. It seems to be working. When he was inside her a moment ago he professed love for her. Now, as he lies on the rug, staring at the ceiling, he seems to be regretting his words.

"Sometimes I don't want you to go," he says.

"Go where?"

"To England."

She comes back, lies down next to him on the rug, and kisses him. His breath is horrible: cigarettes, coffee, bad teeth.

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

"Yes, I think so. Sometimes I think about taking you back to Berlin with me. I can get you a flat there."

"That would be lovely," she says, but she is thinking it might be better to be arrested by MI5 than spend the war as Kurt Vogel's mistress in some hovel of a flat in Berlin.

"But you are far too valuable to Germany to spend the war in Berlin. You must go behind enemy lines to England." He pauses and lights a cigarette. "And then there's something else I think. I think, Why would a beautiful woman fall in love with a man such as myself? And then I have my answer. She thinks he won't send her to England if he loves her."

"I'm not clever or cunning enough to do something like that."

"Of course you are. That's why I chose you."

She feels anger rising within her.

"But I've enjoyed our time together. Emilio said you were very good in bed. 'The best fuck of my entire fucking life'-that's the way Emilio described it. But then, Emilio tends to be a bit of a vulgarian. He said you were better than even the most expensive whores. He said he wanted to keep you in Spain as his mistress. I had to pay twice his usual fee. But believe me, you were well worth the money."

She gets to her feet. "Get out of here, now! I'm leaving in the morning. I've had enough of this hellhole!"

"Oh, yes, you're leaving in the morning. But it's not where you think. There's just one problem. Your trainers tell me that you are still reluctant to kill with your knife. They say you shoot very well, better than the boys, even. But they say you are slow with your stiletto."

She says nothing, just glares at him, lying on the rug in the firelight.

"I have a suggestion for you. Whenever you must use your stiletto, think of the man who hurt you when you were a little girl."

Her mouth drops open in horror. She has told only one person about it in her entire life: Maria. But Maria must have told Emilio-and Emilio, the bastard, told Vogel.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, but there is no conviction to her words.

"Of course you do. It's what made you what you are, a heartless fucking bitch."

She reacts instinctively. She takes a step forward and kicks him viciously beneath his chin. His head snaps back and crashes violently against the floor. He is very still, perhaps unconscious. Her stiletto is on the floor next to the fire; they have trained her to keep it near at all times. She picks it up and presses the release, and the shiny blade snaps into place. In the firelight it is bloodred. She takes a step toward Vogel. She wants to kill him, to plunge the stiletto into one of the kill zones they have taught her: the heart, the kidneys, through the ear or the eye. But Vogel is leaning on one elbow now, and there is a gun in his hand aimed at her head.

"Very good," he says. Blood is pouring from his mouth. "I think you're ready now. Put away the knife and sit down. We need to talk. And please, put on some clothes. You look ridiculous standing there like that."

She puts on a robe and stirs the embers while he dresses and tends to his mouth.

"You're a complete bastard. I'd be a fool to work for you, Vogel."

"Don't even think of trying to back out now. I'd provide the Gestapo very convincing evidence of your father's treachery against the Fuhrer. You wouldn't want to see the things they do to people like that. And if you ever cross me once you're in England. I'll deliver you to the British on a silver platter. If you think that fellow hurt you when you were a little girl, just think about being raped repeatedly by a bunch of stinking British guards. You'll be their favorite prisoner, believe me. I doubt they would ever bother to hang you."

She has gone very still in the dark. She thinks how she can smash his skull with the cast-iron poker but Vogel is still holding his gun. She realizes she has been manipulated by him. She thought she was deceiving him-she thought she was in control-but all the while it was Vogel. He was trying to instill in her the ability to kill. She realizes he has done a very good job indeed.

Vogel is talking again. "By the way, I killed you tonight while you were letting me fuck you. Anna Katerina von Steiner, age twenty-seven, died in an unfortunate road accident outside Berlin about an hour ago. A terrible pity. Such a waste of talent."

Vogel is dressed now, holding a wet cloth against his mouth. It is stained with his blood.

"You're going to Holland in the morning, just as we planned. You stay there for six months, firmly establish your identity; then you go to England. Here are your papers for Holland, your money, and your train ticket. I have people in Amsterdam who will contact you and guide you from there."

He comes forward and stands very close to her.

"Anna wasted her life. But Catherine Blake can do great things."

She hears the door close behind him, hears the sound of his boots crunching through the snow outside her cottage. It is very quiet now, only the popping of the fire and the hiss of the bitter wind stirring the fir trees outside her window. She is still for a moment; then she feels her body begin to convulse. Standing is no longer possible. She falls to her knees in front of the fire and begins to weep uncontrollably.

Kurt Vogel was sleeping on the camp bed in his office when he heard a dull scraping sound that made him sit up with a start. "Who's there?"

"It's only me, sir."

"Werner, for God's sake! You scared me to death, dragging your damned wooden leg like that. I thought it was Frankenstein coming to murder me."

"I'm sorry, sir. I thought you would want to see this right away." Ulbricht handed him a signal flimsy. "It just came in from Hamburg-a message from Catherine Blake in London."

Vogel read it quickly, heart pounding.

"She's made contact with Jordan. She wants Neumann to begin making regular pickups as soon as possible. My God, Werner, she's actually done it!"

"Obviously, a remarkable agent. And a remarkable woman."

"Yes," Vogel said distantly. "Signal Neumann at Hampton Sands at the first opportunity. Tell him to begin pickups on the prearranged schedule."

"Yes, sir."

"And leave word with Admiral Canaris's office. I want to brief him on the developments first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

Ulbricht went out, leaving Vogel alone in the dark. He wondered how she had done it. He hoped one day she would come out so he could debrief her. Stop fooling yourself, old man. He wanted her to come out so he could see her just one more time, explain why he had treated her so horribly on the last night. It was for her own good. She couldn't see it then but maybe, with the passing of time, she could see it now. He imagined her now. Is she frightened? Is she in danger? Of course she was in danger. She was trying to steal Allied secrets in the heart of London. One false move and she would end up in the arms of MI5. But if there was one woman who could pull it off, it was she. Vogel had the broken heart and the broken jaw to prove it.

Heinrich Himmler was working his way through a stack of paperwork at his office on Prinz Albrechtstrasse when the call from Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg was routed through to his desk. "Good evening, Herr Brigadefuhrer. Or should I say good morning."

"It's two A.M. I didn't think you would still be at the office."

"No rest for the weary. What can I do for you?"

"It's about the Vogel affair. I was able to convince an officer in the Abwehr communication room that it was in his interest to cooperate with us."

"Very good."

Schellenberg told Himmler about the message from Vogel's agent in London.

Himmler said, "So, your friend Horst Neumann is about to be brought into the game."

"It appears that way, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"I'll brief the Fuhrer on the developments in the morning. I'm sure he'll be very pleased. This man Vogel seems to be a very capable officer. If he steals the most important secret of the war I wouldn't be surprised if the Fuhrer were to name him Canaris's successor."

"I can think of more worthy candidates for the job, Herr Reichsfuhrer," Schellenberg said.

"You'd better find some way of getting control of the situation. Otherwise you might find yourself out of contention."

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"You're riding with Admiral Canaris in the Tiergarten in the morning?"

"As usual."

"Perhaps you can find out something useful for a change. And do give the Old Fox my warmest regards. Good night, Herr Brigadefuhrer."

Himmler gently replaced the receiver in the cradle and returned to his eternal paperwork.

28

A gray dawn was leaking through thick clouds as Horst Neumann crossed the pine grove and climbed to the top of the dunes. The sea opened before him, gray and still in the windless morning, small breakers collapsing onto the seemingly endless expanse of beach. Neumann wore a gray tracksuit, a rollneck sweater beneath for warmth, and a pair of soft black leather running shoes. He breathed deeply of the cold crisp air and then scrambled down the dunes and walked across the soft sand. The tide was going out and there was a wide swath of hard flat sand, perfect for running. He stretched his legs, blew on his hands, and set out at an easy pace. Terns and gulls squawked in protest and moved away.

He had received a message from Hamburg earlier that morning instructing him to begin regular pickups of material from Catherine Blake in London. It was to be done on the schedule Kurt Vogel had given him at the farm outside Berlin. The material was to be placed through a doorway in Cavendish Square, where it would be collected by a man from the Portuguese embassy and sent to Lisbon inside the diplomatic pouch. It sounded simple. But Neumann understood that courier work on the streets of London would take him straight into the teeth of the British security forces. He would be carrying information that would guarantee him a trip to the gallows if he was arrested. In combat he always knew where the enemy was. In espionage work the enemy could be anywhere. He could be in the next seat in a cafe or on a bus, and Neumann might never know.

It took several minutes for Neumann to feel warm and for the first beads of sweat to appear on his forehead. The running worked its magic, the same magic it had worked on him since he was a boy. He was taken with a pleasant floating sensation, almost flight. His breathing was regular and relaxed, and he could feel the tension melting out of his body. He picked out an imaginary finish line about a half mile down the beach and increased his pace.

The first quarter mile was good. He glided along the beach, his long stride eating up the ground, shoulders and arms loose and relaxed. The last quarter mile was tougher. Neumann's breath grew harsh and ragged. The cold air tore at his throat. His arms felt as though he were carrying lead weights. His imaginary finish line loomed two hundred yards ahead. The backs of his thighs tightened suddenly, and his stride shortened. He pretended it was the homestretch of the 1,500-meter final of the Olympic Games-the games I missed because I was sent off to kill Poles and Russians and Greeks and French! He imagined there was just one man in front of him, and he was gaining ground excruciatingly slowly. The finish line was fifty yards away. It was a clump of sea grass stranded by the high tide, but in Neumann's imagination it was a real finish line with a tape and men in white jackets with stopwatches and the Olympic banner flapping over the stadium in a gentle breeze. He pounded his feet savagely against the hard sand and leaned across the sea grass, stumbled to a halt, and struggled to catch his breath.

It was a silly game-a game he had played with himself since he was a child-but it served a purpose. He had proved to himself that he was finally fit again. It had taken him months to recover from the beating he suffered at the hands of the SS men, but he had finally done it. He felt he was physically ready for anything he might be confronted with. Neumann walked for a moment before breaking into a light jog. It was then that he noticed Jenny Colville, watching him from atop the dunes.

Neumann smiled at her as she approached. She was more attractive than he remembered-a wide, mobile mouth, eyes large and blue, her pale complexion flushed from the morning cold. She wore a heavy wool sweater, a woolen cap, an oilskin coat, trousers haphazardly tucked inside Wellington boots. Behind her, beyond the dunes, Neumann could see white smoke from a doused fire drifting through the pine trees. Jenny drew nearer. She looked tired and her clothes appeared slept in. Yet she smiled with considerable charm as she stood, arms akimbo, and examined him.

"Very impressive, Mr. Porter," she said. Neumann always found her broad, singsong Norfolk accent difficult to comprehend. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were in training for something."

"Old habits are hard to break. Besides, it's good for the body and the soul. You should try it sometime. It would take those extra pounds off you."

"Ah!" She pushed him playfully. "I'm too skinny as it is now. All the boys in the village say so. They like Eleanor Carrick because she has big-well, you know. She goes down to the beach with them and they give her money to unbutton her blouse."

"I saw her in the village yesterday," Neumann said. "She's a fat cow. You're twice as pretty as Eleanor Carrick."

"You think so?"

"I do indeed." Neumann rubbed his arms briskly and stamped his feet. "I need to walk. Otherwise I'm going to be stiff as a board."

"Would you like some company?"

Neumann nodded. It was not the truth but Neumann saw no harm in it. Jenny Colville had a terrible schoolgirl crush on him; it was obvious. She made up some excuse to drop by the Dogherty cottage every day and never turned down an invitation from Mary to stay for tea or supper. Neumann had tried to pay an appropriate amount of attention to Jenny and carefully avoided putting himself in any situation where he might be alone with her. Until now. He would try to turn the conversation to his advantage-to take stock of how well his cover story was holding up in the village. They walked in silence, Jenny staring out at the sea. Neumann grabbed up a handful of stones and skipped them across the waves.

Jenny said, "Do you mind talking about the war?"

"Of course not."

"Your wounds-were they bad?"

"Bad enough to cut short my fighting days and give me a one-way ticket home."

"Where were you wounded?"

"In the head. Someday, when I know you better, I'll lift up my hair and show the scars."

She looked at him and smiled. "Your head looks fine to me."

"And what do you mean by that, Jenny Colville?"

"It means you're a handsome man. And you're smart too. I can tell."

The wind blew a strand of hair across Jenny's face. She tucked it back under her woolen cap with a brush of her hand.

"I just don't understand what you're doing in a place like Hampton Sands."

So his cover story had aroused suspicion in the village!

"I needed a place to rest and get well. The Doghertys offered to let me come here and stay with them, and I took them up on it."

"Why don't I believe that story?"

"You should, Jenny. It's the truth."

"My father thinks you're a criminal or a terrorist. He says Sean used to be a member of the IRA."

"Jenny, can you really picture Sean Dogherty as a member of the Irish Republican Army? Besides, your father has serious problems of his own."

Jenny's face darkened. She stopped walking and turned to face him. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Neumann feared he had taken it too far. Perhaps it was better to disengage, make an excuse, and change the subject. But something made him want to finish what he started. He thought, Why can't I keep my mouth shut and walk away from this? He knew the answer, of course. His own stepfather had been a vicious bastard, quick with a backhand across the face or a cruel remark that brought tears to his eyes. He felt certain Jenny Colville had endured worse physical abuse than he ever had. He wanted to say something to her that would let her know that things did not always have to be this way. He wanted to tell her she was not alone. He wanted to help her.

"It means he drinks far too much." Neumann reached out and touched her face gently. "And it means he mistreats a beautiful, intelligent young girl who's done absolutely nothing in the world to deserve it."

"Do you mean that?" she asked.

"Mean what?"

"That I'm beautiful and intelligent. No one's ever said that to me before."

"Of course I mean it."

She took his hand and they walked some more.

"Do you have a girl?" she asked him.

"No."

"Why not?"

Why not indeed? The war. It was the easy answer. He had never had time for a girl really. His life had been one long series of obsessions: an obsession to lose his Englishness and become a good German, an obsession to become an Olympic champion, an obsession to become the most decorated member of the Fallschirmjager. His last lover had been a French farm girl from the village near his listening post. She had been tender when Neumann was in desperate need of tenderness, and each night for a month she let him in the back door of her cottage and took him secretly to her bed. When he closed his eyes Neumann could still see her body, rising to his in the flickering candlelight of her bedroom. She had taken a vow to kiss his head every night until it healed. In the end, Neumann was overcome with the guilt of an occupier and broke it off. He feared now what would happen to her when the war was over.

"Your face became sad for a moment," Jenny said.

"I was thinking about something."

"I'd say you were thinking about someone. And by the look on your face that someone was a woman."

"You're a very perceptive girl."

"Was she pretty?"

"She was French and she was very beautiful."

"Did she break your heart?"

"You might say that."

"But you left her."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"Why?"

"Because I loved her too much."

"I don't understand."

"You will someday."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"It means you're far too young to be hanging around with the likes of me. I'm going to finish my run. I suggest you go home and change into some clean clothes. You look like you've been sleeping on the beach all night."

They looked at each other in a way that said they both knew it was the truth. She turned to leave, then stopped.

"You'd never do anything to hurt me, would you, James?"

"Of course not."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

She stepped forward and kissed him on the mouth very briefly before turning and running across the sand. Neumann shook his head; then he turned in the opposite direction and ran back down the beach.

29

Alfred Vicary felt he was sinking in quicksand. The more he struggled, the deeper he descended. Each time he unearthed a new clue or lead he seemed to fall further behind. He was beginning to doubt his chances of ever catching the spies.

The source of his despair was a pair of decoded German messages that had arrived from Bletchley Park that morning. The first message was from a German agent in Britain asking Berlin to begin making regular pickups. The second was from Hamburg to a German agent in Britain asking the agent to do just that. It was a disaster. The German operation-whatever it might be-appeared to be succeeding. If the agent had requested a courier, it was logical the agent had stolen something. Vicary was struck by the fear that if he ever did catch up with the spies he might be too late.

The red light shone over Boothby's door. Vicary pressed the buzzer and waited. A minute passed and the light still was red. So like Boothby to demand an urgent meeting, then keep his victim waiting.

Why haven't you told us this before?

But I have, Alfred, old man… I told Boothby.

Vicary pressed the buzzer again. Was it really possible Boothby had known of the existence of the Vogel network and kept it from him? It made absolutely no sense. Vicary could think of only one possible explanation. Boothby had vehemently opposed Vicary's being assigned to the case and had made that clear from the outset. But would Boothby's opposition include actively trying to sabotage Vicary's efforts? Quite possible. If Vicary could display no momentum in solving the case, Boothby might have grounds to sack him and give the case to someone else, someone he trusted-a career officer, perhaps, not one of the new recruits that Boothby so detested.

The light finally shone green. Vicary, slipping through the grand double doors, vowed not to leave again without first clearing the air.

Boothby was seated behind his desk. "Let's have it, Alfred."

Vicary briefed Boothby on the content of the two messages and his theory about what they meant. Boothby listened, fidgeting and squirming in his chair.

"For God's sake!" he snapped. "The news gets worse every day with this case."

Vicary thought, Another sparkling contribution, Sir Basil.

"We've made some progress on piecing together background on the female agent. Karl Becker identified her as Anna von Steiner. She was born in Guy's Hospital in London on Christmas Day 1910. Her father was Peter von Steiner, a diplomat and a wealthy West Prussian aristocrat. Her mother was an Englishwoman named Daphne Harrison. The family remained in London until war broke out, then moved to Germany. Because of Steiner's position, Daphne Harrison was not interned during the war, as many British citizens were. She died of tuberculosis in 1918 at the Steiner estate in West Prussia. After the war Steiner and his daughter drifted from posting to posting, including another brief stint in London in the early twenties. Steiner also worked in Rome and in Washington."

"Sounds like he was a spy to me," Boothby said. "But go on, Alfred."

"In 1937, Anna Steiner vanished. We can only speculate after that. She undergoes Abwehr training, is sent to the Netherlands to establish a false identity as Christa Kunst, then enters England. By the way, Anna Steiner was allegedly killed in an auto accident outside Berlin in March 1938. Obviously, Vogel fabricated that."

Boothby rose and paced his office. "It's all very interesting, Alfred, but there's one fatal flaw. It's based on information given to you by Karl Becker. Becker would say anything to ingratiate himself."

"Becker has no reason to lie to us about this, Sir Basil. And his story is perfectly consistent with the few things we know for certain."

"All I'm saying, Alfred, is that I very much doubt the veracity of anything the man says."

"So why did you spend so much time with him last October?" Vicary said.

Sir Basil was standing in the window, looking down at the last light slipping out of the square. His head snapped around before he regained his composure and turned slowly to face Vicary.

"The reason I spoke to Becker is none of your affair."

"Becker is my agent," Vicary said, anger creeping into his voice. "I arrested him, I turned him, I run him. He gave you information that might have proved useful to this case, yet you kept that information from me. I'd like to know why."

Boothby was very calm now. "Becker told me the same story he told you: special agents, a secret camp in Bavaria, special codes and rendezvous procedures. And to be honest with you, Alfred, I didn't believe him at the time. We had no other evidence to support his story. Now we do."

It was a perfectly logical explanation-on the surface, at least.

"Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"It was a long time ago."

"Who's Broome?"

"Sorry, Alfred."

"I want to know who Broome is."

"And I'm trying to tell you as politely as I can that you're not entitled to know who Broome is." Boothby shook his head. "My God! This isn't some college club where we sit around and swap insights. This department is in the business of counterintelligence. And it operates on a very simple concept: need to know. You have no need to know who Broome is because it does not affect any case to which you have been assigned. Therefore it is none of your business."

"Is the concept of need to know a license to deceive other officers?"

"I wouldn't use the word deceive," Boothby said, as though it were an obscenity. "It simply means that, for reasons of security, an officer is entitled to know only what is necessary for him to carry out his assignment."

"How about the word lie? Would you use that word?"

The discussion seemed to be causing Boothby physical pain.

"I suppose at times it might be necessary to be less than truthful with one officer to safeguard an operation being carried out by another. Surely this doesn't come as a surprise to you."

"Of course not, Sir Basil." Vicary hesitated, deciding whether to continue with his line of questioning or disengage. "I was just wondering why you lied to me about reading Kurt Vogel's file."

The blood seemed to drain from Boothby's face, and Vicary could see him bunching and unbunching his big fist inside his trouser pocket. It was a risky strategy, and Grace Clarendon's neck was on the block. When Vicary was gone, Boothby would call Nicholas Jago in Registry and demand answers. Jago would surely realize Grace Clarendon was the source of the leak. It was no small matter; she could be sacked immediately. But Vicary was betting they wouldn't touch Grace because it would only prove her information had been correct. He hoped to God he was right.

"Looking for a scapegoat, Alfred? Someone or something to blame for your inability to solve this case? You should know the danger in that more than any of us. History is replete with examples of weak men who have found it expedient to acquire a convenient scapegoat."

Vicary thought, And you're not answering my question.

He rose to his feet. "Good night, Sir Basil."

Boothby remained silent as Vicary walked toward the door.

"There's one more thing," Boothby finally said. "I shouldn't think I need to tell you this, but I shall in any case. We don't have an unlimited amount of time. If there isn't progress soon we may have to make-well, changes. You understand, don't you, Alfred?"

30

As they walked into the Savoy Grill, the band began playing "And a Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." It was a rather poor rendition-choppy and a bit rushed-but it was pretty, regardless. Jordan took her hand without speaking and they walked onto the dance floor. He was an excellent dancer, smooth and confident, and he held her very closely. He had come directly from his office and was wearing his uniform. He had brought his briefcase with him. Obviously it contained nothing important because he had left it behind at the table. Still, he never seemed to take his eyes off it for very long.

After a moment Catherine noticed something: everyone in the room seemed to be staring at them. It was terribly unnerving. For six years she had done everything in her power not to be noticed. Now she was dancing with a dazzling American naval officer at the most glamorous hotel in London. She felt exposed and vulnerable, yet at the same time she derived a strange satisfaction from doing something completely normal for a change.

Her own appearance certainly had something to do with the attention they were drawing. She had seen it in Jordan's eyes a few minutes earlier when she walked into the bar. She looked stunning tonight. She wore a dress of black crepe material with a deep plunge in the back and a neckline that showed off the shape of her breasts. She wore her hair down, held back by a smart jeweled clasp, and a double strand of pearls at her throat. She had taken care with her makeup. The wartime cosmetics were of extremely poor quality but she didn't require much-a little lipstick to accentuate the shape of her generous mouth, a little rouge to bring out her prominent cheekbones, a bit of liner around her eyes. She derived no special satisfaction from her appearance. She had always thought of her own beauty in dispassionate terms, the way a woman might evaluate her favorite china or a cherished antique rug. Still, it had been a very long time since she had walked through a room and watched heads turn her way. She was the kind of woman that both sexes noticed. The men could hardly keep their mouths closed, the women frowned with envy.

Jordan said, "Have you noticed that everyone in this room is staring at us?"

"I've noticed that, yes. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." He drew away a few inches so he could look at her face. "It's been a very long time since I've felt this way, Catherine. And to think I had to come all the way to London to find you."

"I'm glad you did."

"Can I make a confession?"

"Of course you can."

"I didn't get much sleep after you left last night."

She smiled and drew him near, so her mouth was next to his ear. "I'll make a confession too. I didn't sleep at all."

"What were you thinking about?"

"You tell me first."

"I was thinking how much I wished you hadn't left."

"I was having very similar thoughts."

"I was thinking about kissing you."

"I think I was kissing you."

"I don't want you to leave tonight."

"I think you would have to throw me out bodily if you wanted me to leave."

"I don't think you need to worry about that."

"I think I'd like you to kiss me again right now, Peter."

"What about all these people staring at us? What do you think they'll do if I kiss you?"

"I'm not sure. But it's 1944 in London. Anything can happen."

"Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," the waiter said, opening a bottle of champagne as they came back to the table.

"Does the gentleman have a name?" Jordan asked.

"None that he gave, sir."

"What did he look like?"

"Rather like a sunburned rugby player, sir."

"American naval officer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Shepherd Ramsey."

"The gentleman wishes to join you for a glass."

"Tell the gentleman thank you for the champagne, but forget it."

"Of course, sir."

"Who's Shepherd Ramsey?" Catherine asked when the waiter left.

"Shepherd Ramsey is my oldest and dearest friend in the world. I love him like a brother."

"So why don't you let him come over for a drink?"

"Because for once in my adult life I'd like to do something without him. Besides, I don't want to share you."

"Good, because I don't want to share you either." Catherine raised her champagne glass. "To the absence of Shepherd."

Jordan laughed. "To the absence of Shepherd."

They touched glasses.

Catherine added, "And to the blackout, without which I would never have bumped into you."

"To the blackout." Jordan hesitated. "I know this probably sounds like a terrible cliche, but I can't take my eyes off of you."

Catherine smiled and leaned across the table.

"I don't want you to take your eyes off me, Peter. Why do you think I wore this dress?"

"I'm a little nervous."

"I am too, Peter."

"You look so beautiful, lying there in the moonlight."

"You look beautiful too."

"Don't. My wife-"

"I'm sorry. It's just that I've never seen a man who looked quite like you. Try not to think about your wife for just a few minutes."

"It's very hard, but you're making it a little easier."

"You look like a statue, kneeling there like that."

"A very old, crumbling statue."

"A beautiful statue."

"I can't stop touching you-touching them. They're so beautiful. I've been dreaming of touching them like this since the first moment I saw you."

"You can touch them harder. It won't hurt."

"Like this?"

"Oh, God! Yes, Peter, just like that. But I want to touch you too."

"That feels so nice when you do that."

"It does?"

"Ahh, yes, it does."

"It's so hard. It feels wonderful. There's something else I want to do to it."

"What?"

"I can't say it out loud. Just come closer."

"Catherine-"

"Just do it, darling. I promise you won't regret it."

"Oh, my God, that feels so incredible."

"Then I shouldn't stop?"

"You look so beautiful doing that."

"I want to make you feel good."

"I want to make you feel good."

"I can show you how."

"I think I know how."

"Ahh, Peter, your tongue feels so wonderful. Oh, please, touch my breasts while you do that."

"I want to be inside you."

"Hurry, Peter."

"Ohh, you're so soft, so wonderful. Oh, God, Catherine, I'm going to-"

"Wait! Not yet, darling. Do me a favor and lie down on your back. Let me do the rest."

He did as she asked. She took him in her hand and guided him inside her body. She could have just lain there and let him finish but she wanted it this way. She always knew Vogel would do this to her. Why else would he want a female agent except to seduce Allied officers and steal their secrets? She always thought the man would be fat and hairy and old and ugly, not like Peter. If she was going to be Kurt Vogel's whore, she might as well enjoy it. Oh, God, Catherine, you shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be losing control like this. But she couldn't help it. She was enjoying it. And she was losing control. Her head rolled back and her hands went to her breasts and she stroked her nipples with her fingers and after a moment she felt his warm release within her and it washed over her in wave after wonderful wave.

It was late, at least four o'clock, though Catherine couldn't be sure because it was too dark to see the clock on the bedstand. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Peter Jordan was sleeping soundly next to her. His breathing was deep and regular. They had eaten a large meal, had a lot to drink, and made love twice. Unless he was a very light sleeper, he would probably sleep through a Luftwaffe night raid right now. She slipped out of bed, put on the silk dressing robe he had given her, and padded quietly across the room. The bedroom door was closed halfway. Catherine opened it a few inches, slipped through the doorway, and closed it behind her.

The silence rang in her ears. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She forced herself to be calm. She had worked too hard-risked too much-just to get to this point. One silly mistake and it would destroy all she had done. She moved quickly down the narrow staircase. The stair creaked. She froze, waiting to hear if Jordan woke up. Outside a car whooshed through standing water. Somewhere a dog was barking. In the distance a lorry horn blared. She realized these were just the average sounds of the night that people slept through all the time. She walked quickly down the stairs and along the hall. She found his keys on a small table, next to her handbag. She picked them both up and went to work.

Catherine had limited objectives tonight. She wanted to guarantee herself regular access to Jordan's study and his private papers. For that she needed her own copy of the keys to the front door, to the study door, and to his briefcase. Jordan's key ring held several keys. The key to the front door was obvious; it was larger than the rest. She reached in her purse and removed a block of soft brown clay. She singled out the skeleton key and pressed it into the clay, making a neat imprint. The key to the briefcase was also obvious; it was the smallest. She repeated the same process, making another neat imprint. The study would be more difficult; there were a number of keys that looked as though they might be the one. There was only one way to find out which it was. She picked up her handbag and Jordan's briefcase, carried everything down the hall to the study door, and began trying the different keys. The fourth key she tried fit the lock. She removed it and pressed it into her block of clay.

Catherine could stop now, and it would be a very successful evening. She could make duplicate keys and she could come back when Jordan wasn't home and photograph everything in his study. She would do that; but she wanted more tonight. She wanted to prove to Vogel that she had done it, that she was a talented agent. By her estimate she had been out of bed less than two minutes. She could afford two more.

She unlocked the study door, went inside, and switched on the light. It was a handsome room, furnished like the drawing room in a masculine way. There was a large desk and a leather chair and a drafting table with a tall wooden stool in front of it. Catherine reached inside her handbag and withdrew two items, her camera and her silenced Mauser pistol. She laid the Mauser on the desk. She raised the camera to her eye and clicked off two photographs of the room. Next she unlocked Jordan's briefcase. It was virtually empty-just a billfold, a case for eyeglasses, and a small leather-bound appointment book. She thought, It's a start at least. Perhaps there were names of important men with whom Jordan had met. If the Abwehr knew whom he was meeting, perhaps they could discover the nature of his work.

How many times had she done this at the training camp? God, but she had lost count: a hundred at least, always with Vogel standing over her with his bloody stop-watch. Too long! Too loud! Too much light! Not enough! They're coming for you! You're caught! What do you do now? She laid the appointment book on the desk and switched on the desk lamp. It had a pliable arm and a dome over the bulb to focus the light downward, perfect for photographing documents.

Three minutes. Work quickly now, Catherine. She opened the notebook and adjusted the lamp so the light shone directly onto the page. If she did it at the wrong angle, or if the light was too close, the negatives would be ruined. She did it just as Vogel had instructed and started snapping off the photographs. Names, dates, short notes written in his scrawling hand. She photographed a few more pages and then found something very interesting. One page contained crude sketches of a boxlike figure. There were numbers on the page that appeared to represent dimensions. Catherine photographed that page twice to make certain she captured the image.

Four minutes. One more item tonight: the safe. It was bolted to the floor, next to the desk. Vogel had given her a combination that was supposed to unlock it. Catherine knelt and turned the dial. Six digits. When she turned to the last number she felt the tumbler settle into place. She took hold of the latch and applied pressure. The latch snapped into the open position; the combination worked. She pulled open the door and looked inside: two binders filled with papers, several loose-leaf notebooks. It would take hours to photograph everything. She would wait. She aimed the camera at the inside of the safe and took a photograph.

Five minutes. Time to put everything back in its original place. She closed the safe door, returned the latch to the locked position, and spun the dial. She placed the block of clay in her handbag carefully, so as not to damage the imprints. The camera and the Mauser were next. She returned Jordan's appointment book to its place inside his briefcase and locked it. Then she shut off the lights and went out. She closed the door and locked it.

Six minutes. Too long. She carried everything back into the hall and placed the keys, his briefcase, and her handbag back on the table. Done! She needed an excuse: she was thirsty. It was true-her mouth was parched from nerves. She went into the kitchen, took a glass down from the cabinet, and filled it with cold water from the tap. She drank it down immediately, refilled it, and carried the glass upstairs to the bedroom.

Catherine felt relief washing over her and at the same time an amazing sense of power and triumph. Finally, after months of training and years of waiting, she had done something. She realized suddenly that she liked spying-the satisfaction of meticulously planning and executing an operation, the childlike pleasure of knowing a secret, learning something that someone doesn't want you to know. Vogel had been right all alone, of course. She was perfect for it-in every way.

She opened the door and went back into the bedroom.

Peter Jordan was sitting up in bed in the moonlight.

"Where have you been? I was worried about you."

"I was dying of thirst." She couldn't believe the calm, collected voice was really hers.

"I hope you brought me some too," he said.

Oh, thank God. She could breathe again.

"Of course I did."

She handed him the glass of water, and he drank it.

Catherine asked, "What time is it?"

"Five o'clock. I have to be up in an hour for an eight o'clock meeting."

She kissed him. "So we have one hour left."

"Catherine, I couldn't possibly-"

"Oh, I bet you could."

She let the silk gown fall from her shoulders and drew his face to her breasts.

Catherine Blake, later that morning, strode along the Chelsea Embankment as a light, bitterly cold rain drifted across the river. During her preparation Vogel had provided her with a sequence of twenty different rendezvous, each in a different location in central London, each at a slightly different time. He had forced her to commit them to memory, and she assumed he had done the same thing with Horst Neumann before sending him into England. Under the rules it was Catherine who would decide whether the meeting would take place. If she saw anything she didn't like-a suspicious face, men in a parked car-she could call it off and they would try again at the next location on the list at the specified time.

Catherine saw nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced at her wristwatch: two minutes early. She continued walking and, inevitably, thought about what had happened last night. She worried she had taken things with Jordan too far, too fast. She hoped he hadn't been shocked by the things she had done to his body or by the things she had asked him to do to hers. Perhaps a middle-class Englishwoman wouldn't have behaved like that. Too late for second thoughts now, Catherine.

The morning had been like being in a dream. It felt as if she had been magically turned into someone else and dropped into their world. She dressed and made coffee while Jordan shaved and showered; the placid domestic scene felt bizarre to her. She felt a stab of fear when he unlocked the study door and went inside. Did I leave anything out of place? Does he realize I was in there last night? They had shared a taxi. During the short ride to Grosvenor Square she was struck by another thought: What if he doesn't want to see me again? It had never occurred to her before that moment. All of it would have been for nothing unless he truly cared for her. Her concerns had been groundless. As the taxi arrived at Grosvenor Square he asked her to have dinner with him that evening at an Italian restaurant in Charlotte Street.

Catherine turned around and retraced her steps along the Embankment. Neumann was there now, walking toward her, hands plunged into the pockets of his reefer coat, collar up against the rain, slouch hat pulled down close to his eyes. He had a good look for a field agent: small, anonymous, yet vaguely menacing. Put a suit on him and he could attend a Belgravia cocktail party. Dressed as he was now, he could walk the toughest docks in London and no one would dare look at him twice. She wondered if he had ever studied acting, like she had.

"You look like you could use a cup of coffee," he said. "There's a nice warm cafe not too far from here."

Neumann held out an arm to her. She took it and they strolled along the Embankment. It was very cold. She gave him the film and he carelessly dropped it into his pocket, as though it were spare change. Vogel had trained him well.

Catherine said, "You know where to deliver this, I assume."

"Cavendish Square. A man from the Portuguese embassy named Hernandez will pick it up at three o'clock this afternoon and place it in the diplomatic pouch. It will go to Lisbon tonight and be in Berlin in the morning."

"Very good."

"What is it, by the way?"

"His appointment book, some photographs of his study. Not much, but it's a start."

"Very impressive," Neumann said. "How did you get it?"

"I let him take me to dinner; then I let him take me to bed. I got up in the middle of the night and slipped into his study. The combination worked, by the way. I also saw the inside of his safe."

Neumann shook his head. "That's risky as hell. If he comes downstairs you're in trouble."

"I know. That's why I need these." She reached into her handbag and gave him the block of clay with the imprints of the keys. "Find someone to make copies of these and deliver them to my flat today. Tomorrow, when he goes to work, I'm going to go back inside his house and photograph everything in that study."

Neumann pocketed the block of clay.

"Right. Anything else?"

"Yes, from now on, no more conversations like this. We bump into each other, I give you the film, you walk away and deliver it to the Portuguese. If you have a message for me, write it down and give it to me. Understood?"

"Understood."

They stopped walking. "Well, you have a very busy day ahead of you, Mr. Porter." She kissed his cheek and said into his ear, "I risked my life for those things. Don't fuck it up now."

Then she turned and walked away down the Embankment.

The first problem confronting Horst Neumann that morning was finding someone to make copies of Peter Jordan's keys. No reputable shop in the West End would make a duplicate key based on an imprint. In fact they would probably call the Metropolitan Police and have him arrested. He needed to go to a neighborhood where he might find a shopkeeper willing to do the job for the right price. He walked along the Thames, crossed Battersea Bridge, and headed into South London.

It didn't take Neumann long to find what he was looking for. The shop's windows had been blown out by a bomb. Now they were boarded up with plywood. Neumann stepped inside. There were no customers, just an older man behind the counter wearing a heavy blue shirt and a grimy apron.

Neumann said, "You make keys, mate?"

The clerk inclined his head toward the grinder.

Neumann took the clay from his pocket. "You know how to make keys from something like this?"

"Yep, but it will cost you."

"How's ten shillings sound?"

The clerk smiled; he had about half his teeth. "Sounds like sweet music." He took the clay. "Be ready by tomorrow noon."

"I need them right now."

The clerk was smiling his horrid smile again. "Well, now, that's going to cost you another ten bob."

Neumann laid the money on the counter. "I'll wait here while you cut them, if you don't mind."

"Suit yourself."

In the afternoon the rain stopped. Neumann walked a great deal. When he wasn't walking he was jumping on and off buses and rushing in and out of the underground. He had only the vaguest memories of London from when he was a boy, and he actually enjoyed spending the day in the city. It was a relief from the boredom of Hampton Sands. Nothing to do there except run on the beach and read and help Sean in the meadows with the sheep. Leaving the hardware shop, he pocketed the duplicate keys and recrossed Battersea Bridge. He took Catherine's block of clay, crushed it so as to erase the imprints, and tossed it into the Thames. It broke the surface with a deep bloop and vanished into the swirling water.

He meandered through Chelsea and Kensington and finally into Earl's Court. He placed the keys in an envelope and the envelope through Catherine's letter box. Then he took his lunch at a window table of a crowded cafe. A woman two tables away made eyes at him throughout the meal, but he had brought a newspaper for protection and looked up only occasionally to smile at her. It was tempting; she was attractive enough and it might be an enjoyable way to kill the rest of the afternoon and get off the streets for a while. It was insecure, however. He paid his bill, winked at her, and walked out.

Fifteen minutes later he stopped at a phone box, picked up the receiver, and dialed a local number. It was answered by a man who spoke heavily accented English. Neumann politely asked for a Mr. Smythe; the fellow at the other end of the line protested a little too vehemently that there was no one named Smythe at this number. Then he violently rang off. Neumann smiled and returned the receiver to its cradle. The exchange was a crude code. The man was the Portuguese courier Carlos Hernandez. When Neumann called and asked for someone with a name beginning with an S, the courier was to go to Cavendish Square and collect the material.

He still had an hour to kill. He walked in Kensington, skirting Hyde Park, and arrived at Marble Arch. The clouds thickened and it started to rain-just a few cold, fat drops to begin with, then a steady downpour. He ducked into a bookshop in a small street off Portman Square. He browsed for a bit, dismissing an offer of assistance from the dark-haired girl standing atop a ladder stocking books on the top shelves. He selected a volume of T. S. Eliot and a new novel by Graham Greene called The Ministry of Fear. While he was paying, the girl professed love for Eliot and invited Neumann for coffee when she took her break at four o'clock. He declined but said he was frequently in the area and would come back. The girl smiled, placed the books in a brown paper bag, and said she would like that. Neumann walked out, accompanied by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the top of the door.

He arrived in Cavendish Square. The rain diminished to a chilly drizzle. It was too cold for him to wait on a bench in the square, so he walked around it several times, never taking his eye from the doorway on the southwest corner.

After twenty minutes of this, the fat man arrived.

He wore a gray suit, gray overcoat, and bowler hat and carried himself as though he were about to rob a bank. He shoved his key in the door as though he were entering enemy territory and went inside. When the door closed Neumann crossed the square, removed the film from his jacket pocket, and dropped it through the mail slot. On the other side of the door he heard the fat man grunting as he stooped to pick it up. Neumann walked away and continued his tour of the square, again never taking his eyes from the house. The Portuguese diplomat emerged five minutes later, found a taxi after a moment, and was gone.

Neumann looked at his wristwatch. More than an hour before his train. He thought about going back to the bookshop for the girl. The idea of coffee and intelligent conversation appealed to him. But even innocent discourse was a potential minefield. Speaking the language and understanding the culture were two different things. He might make a stupid remark and she might become suspicious. It was not worth the risk.

He left Cavendish Square, books beneath his arm, and took the underground east to Liverpool Street, where he boarded the late-afternoon train for Hunstanton.