The Unlikely Spy

61

Kurt Vogel was cooling his heels in Walter Schellenberg's luxuriously appointed anteroom, watching the squadron of young assistants scurrying feverishly in and out of the office. Blond, blue-eyed, they looked as though they had just leapt from a Nazi propaganda poster. It had been three hours since Schellenberg had summoned Vogel for an urgent consultation about "that unfortunate business in Britain," as he habitually referred to Vogel's blown operation. Vogel didn't mind the wait; he didn't really have anything better to do. Since Canaris had been sacked and the Abwehr absorbed by the SS, German military intelligence had become a ship without a rudder, just when Hitler needed it most. The old town houses along Tirpitz Ufer had taken on the despondent air of an aging resort out of season. Morale was so low, many officers were volunteering for the Russian front.

Vogel had other plans.

One of Schellenberg's aides came out, jabbed an accusing finger at Vogel, and wordlessly waved him inside. The office was as big as a Gothic cathedral, with magnificent oil paintings and tapestries hanging on the walls, a far cry from Canaris's understated Fox's Lair at Tirpitz Ufer. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows. Vogel looked out. Fires from the morning's air raid smoldered along Unter den Linden, and a fine soot drifted over the Tiergarten like black snow.

Schellenberg smiled warmly, pumped Vogel's bony hand, and gestured for him to sit down. Vogel knew about the machine guns in Schellenberg's desk, so he kept very still and left his hands in plain sight. The doors closed, and they were alone in the cavernous office. Vogel felt Schellenberg feeding on him with his eyes.

Though Schellenberg and Himmler had been plotting against Canaris for years, a chain of unfortunate events had finally done in the Old Fox: his failure to predict Argentina's decision to sever all ties with Germany; the loss of a vital Abwehr intelligence-gathering post in Spanish Morocco; the defections of several key Abwehr officers in Turkey, Casablanca, Lisbon, and Stockholm. But the final straw was the disastrous conclusion of Vogel's operation in London. Two Abwehr agents-Horst Neumann and Catherine Blake-had been killed within sight of the U-boat. They had been unable to transmit a final message explaining why they had decided to flee England, leaving Vogel with no way to judge the authenticity of the information Catherine Blake had stolen on Operation Mulberry. Hitler exploded when he heard the news. He immediately fired Canaris and placed the Abwehr and its sixteen thousand agents in the hands of Schellenberg.

Somehow, Vogel survived. Schellenberg and Himmler suspected the operation had been compromised by Canaris. Vogel-like Catherine Blake and Horst Neumann-was an innocent victim of the Old Fox's treachery.

Vogel had another theory. He suspected all the information stolen by Catherine Blake had been planted by British Intelligence. He suspected she and Neumann attempted to flee Britain when Neumann discovered she was being watched by the opposition. He suspected Operation Mulberry was not an antiaircraft complex destined for the Pas de Calais but an artificial harbor bound for the beaches of Normandy. He also suspected all the other agents sent to Britain were bad-that they had been captured and forced to cooperate with British Intelligence, probably from the outset of the war.

Vogel, however, lacked the evidence to substantiate any of this-good lawyer that he was, he did not intend to bring charges he could not prove. Besides, even if he had the proof in his possession, he wasn't sure he would have given it to the likes of Schellenberg and Himmler.

One of the telephones on Schellenberg's desk rang. It was a call he had to take. He grunted and spoke in a guarded code for five minutes while Vogel waited. The snowstorm of soot had diminished. The ruins of Berlin shone in the April sun. Shattered glass sparkled like ice crystals.

Remaining at the Abwehr and cooperating with the new regime had its advantages. Vogel had quietly slipped Gertrude, Nicole, and Lizbet from Bavaria to Switzerland. Like a good agent runner, he had financed the operation with an elaborate shell game, moving funds from secret Abwehr accounts in Switzerland to Gertrude's personal account, then covering the exchange with his own money in Germany. He had moved enough money out of the country to enable them to live comfortably for a couple of years after the war. He had another asset, the information he possessed in his mind. The British and Americans, he felt certain, would pay handsomely in money and protection.

Schellenberg rang off and made a face as though he had a sour stomach.

"So," he said. "The reason I asked you to come today, Captain Vogel. Some exciting news from London."

"Oh?" Vogel said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. Our source inside MI-Five has some very interesting information."

Schellenberg produced a signal flimsy with a flourish and presented it to Vogel. Reading it, Vogel thought, Remarkable, the subtlety of the manipulation. He finished and handed the flimsy across the desk to Schellenberg.

Schellenberg said, "For MI-Five to take disciplinary action against a man who is a personal friend and confidant of Winston Churchill is extraordinary. And the source is impeccable. I recruited him personally. He's not one of Canaris's flunkies. I believe it proves the information stolen by your agent was genuine, Captain Vogel."

"Yes, I believe you're right, Herr Brigadefuhrer."

"The Fuhrer needs to be told of this right away. He's meeting with the Japanese ambassador at Berchtesgaden tonight to brief him on preparations for the invasion. I'm sure he'll want to pass this along."

Vogel nodded.

"I'm leaving on a plane from Tempelhof in one hour. I'd like you to come with me and personally brief the Fuhrer. After all, it was your operation to begin with. And besides, the man has taken a liking to you. You have a very bright future, Captain Vogel."

"Thank you for the offer, Herr Brigadefuhrer, but I think you should tell the Fuhrer about the news."

"Are you certain, Captain Vogel?"

"Yes, Herr Brigadefuhrer, I'm quite certain."

62

It was the first fine day of spring-warm sunshine, a soft wind from the Sound. The day before had been cold and damp. Dorothy Lauterbach had worried that the memorial service and reception would be ruined by the cold. She made certain all the fireplaces in the house were laid with wood and ordered the caterer to have plenty of hot coffee ready for when the guests arrived. But by midmorning the sun had burned away the last of the clouds, and the island sparkled. Dorothy quickly moved the reception from the house to the lawn overlooking the Sound.

Shepherd Ramsey had brought Peter's things from London: his clothes, his books, his letters, the personal papers that the security men had not seized. Ramsey, sitting on the transport plane from London, had leafed through the letters to make certain there was no mention of the woman Peter was seeing in London before his death.

The graveside ceremony was packed. There was no body to bury, but they laid a small headstone next to Margaret's. All of Bratton's bank attended, as did most of the staff of the Northeast Bridge Company. The North Shore crowd came too-the Blakemores and the Brandenbergs, the Carlisles and the Duttons, the Robinsons and the Tetlingers. Billy stood next to Jane, and Jane leaned against Walker Hardegen. Bratton accepted the American flag from a representative of the navy. The wind tore blossoms from the trees and tossed them on the crowd like confetti.

One man stood slightly apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed respectfully. He was tall and thin, and his double-breasted suit of gray wool was a little too heavy for the warm spring weather.

Walker Hardegen was the only person present who recognized him. Hardegen did not know the man's real name. He always used a pseudonym that was so ridiculous Hardegen had trouble saying it without laughing.

The man was Hardegen's control officer, and the pseudonym he used was Broome.

Shepherd Ramsey carried the letter from the man in London. Dorothy and Bratton slipped into the library and read it during the reception. Dorothy read it first, hands trembling. She was older now, older and grayer. A fall on the icy steps of the Manhattan house in December had left her with a broken hip. The resulting limp had robbed her of her old physical presence. Her eyes were damp when she finished reading, but she did not cry. Dorothy always did things in moderation. She handed the letter to Bratton, who wept as he read.

Dear Billy,

It is with great sadness that I write this letter. I had the pleasure of working with your father for only a very brief period, but I found him to be one of the most remarkable men I have ever met. He was involved in one of the most vital projects of the war. Because of the requirements of security, however, there is a strong possibility you may never be told exactly what your father did.

I can tell you this-the work done by your father will save countless lives and make it possible for the people of Europe to be rid of Hitler and the Nazis once and for all. Your father truly gave his life so that others may live. He was a hero.

But nothing your father accomplished gave him as much pleasure and satisfaction as you, Billy. When your father spoke of you his face changed. His eyes brightened and he smiled, no matter how tired he might he. I was never fortunate enough to be blessed with a son. Listening to your father talk about you, I realized the depth of my misfortune.

Sincerely, Alfred Vicary

Bratton handed the letter back to Dorothy. She folded it, put it back in its envelope, and placed it in the top drawer of Bratton's desk. She went to the window and looked out.

Everyone was eating and drinking and seemed to be having a good time. Beyond the crowd she could see Billy, Jane, and Walker sitting on the grass down by the dock. Jane and Walker had become more than friends. They had started to see each other romantically, and Jane was actually talking about marriage. She thought, Wouldn't it be perfect. Billy would have a real family again.

There was a neatness to it, a closure about the whole thing that Dorothy found comforting. It was warm again, and soon it would be summer. The houses would all be opening soon, and the parties would begin. Life goes on, she told herself. Margaret and Peter are gone, but life most definitely goes on.

63

Even Alfred Vicary was surprised at the speed with which he was able to drop out. Technically, it was an administrative leave pending the findings of the internal inquiry. Vicary understood that was gobbledygook for a sacking.

Perversely he took Basil Boothby's advice and fled to his aunt Matilda's house-he could never get used to the notion it was his-to sort himself out. The first days of his exile were appalling. He missed the camaraderie of MI5. He missed his wretched little office. He even found himself missing his camp bed, for he had lost the gift of sound sleep. He blamed it on Matilda's sagging double bed-too soft, too much room to wrestle with his troubled thoughts. In a rare flash of inspiration, he went to the village store and purchased a new camp bed. He erected it in the drawing room next to the fire, an odd location, he knew, but he had no plans for guests. From that night on he slept as well as could be expected.

He endured a long blue period of inactivity. But in the spring, when the weather warmed, he focused his boundless wasted energy on his new home. The watchers who paid the occasional visit looked on in horror as Vicary attacked his garden with pruning shears, a sickle, and his half-moon eyeglasses. They watched in amazement as he repainted the interior of the cottage. Considerable debate erupted over his choice of color, a bright institutional white. Did it mean his mood was improving, or was he making a hospital of his home and checking in for an extended stay?

There was also a good deal of concern in the village. Poole, the man from the general shop, diagnosed Vicary's mood as one of bereavement. "Not possible," said Plenderleith, the man from the nursery who advised Vicary on his garden. "Never been married, never been in love apparently." Miss Lazenby from the dress shop declared them both wrong. "Poor man's in love, any fool can see that. And by the looks of him the object of his devotion isn't returning the favor."

Vicary, even had he known of the debate, could not have settled it, for he was as much a stranger to his own emotions as those who witnessed them. The head of his department at University College sent him a letter. He had heard Vicary was no longer working at the War Office and was wondering when he might be coming back. Vicary tore the letter in half and burned it in the fireplace.

London held nothing for him-only bad memories-so he stayed away. He went just once, a morning in the first week of June, when Sir Basil summoned him to hear the results of the internal review.

"Hello, Alfred!" Sir Basil called out as Vicary was shown into Boothby's office. The room was ablaze in a fine orange light. Boothby was standing at the precise center of the floor, as though he wanted room to maneuver in all directions. He wore a perfectly cut gray suit and seemed taller than Vicary remembered. The director-general was sitting on the handsome couch, fingers interlaced as if in prayer, eyes fixed on some spot in the Persian carpet. Boothby thrust out his right hand like a bayonet and advanced on Vicary. By the chaotic smile on Boothby's face, Vicary wasn't sure if he was planning to embrace him or assault him. And he wasn't sure which he feared more.

What Boothby did do was shake Vicary's hand a little too affectionately and lay a big paw on Vicary's shoulder. It was hot and damp, as though he had just finished a set of tennis. He personally served Vicary tea and made small talk while Vicary smoked a last cigarette. Then, with considerable ceremony, he removed the review board's final report from his desk and laid it on the table. Vicary refused to look at it directly.

Boothby took too much pleasure in explaining to Vicary that he was not permitted to read the review of his own operation. Instead, Boothby showed Vicary a sanitized single-page letter purporting to "condense and summarize" the contents of the report. Vicary held it in both hands, the paper tight as a drum, so it would not shake while he read it. It was a vile, obscene document, but challenging it now would do no good. He handed it back to Boothby, shook his hand and then the director-general's, and went out.

Vicary walked downstairs. Someone else was in his office. Harry was there, an ugly scar along his jaw. Vicary was not one for long farewells. He told Harry he had been sacked, thanked him for everything, and said good-bye.

It was raining again and cold for June. The head of Transport offered Vicary a car. Vicary politely refused. He put up his umbrella and drifted back to Chelsea through the pouring rain.

He spent the night at his house in Chelsea. He awakened at dawn, rain rattling against the windows. It was June 6. He switched on the BBC to listen to the news and heard that the invasion was on.

Vicary went out at midday expecting to see nervous crowds and anxious chatter, but London was dead quiet. A few people ventured out to shop; a few went into churches to pray. Taxis cruised the empty streets in search of fares.

Vicary watched Londoners as they went about their day. He wanted to run up and shake them and say, Don't you know what's happening? Don't you realize what it took? Don't you know the clever, wicked things we did to deceive them? Don't you know what they did to me?

He took his supper at the corner pub and listened to the upbeat bulletins on the wireless. That night, alone again, he listened to the King's address to the nation; then he went to bed. In the morning he took a taxi to Paddington Station and caught the first train back to Gloucestershire.

Gradually, by summer, his days took on a careful routine.

He rose early and read until lunch, which he took each day in the village at the Eight Bells: vegetable pie, beer, meat when it was on the menu. From the Eight Bells he would set off for his daily forced march over the breezy footpaths around the village. Each day it took a little less time for the cobwebs to clear from his ruined knee, and by August he was walking ten miles each afternoon. He gave up cigarettes and took up a pipe. The rituals of the pipe-the loading, the cleaning, the lighting, and the relighting-fitted his new life perfectly.

He was not aware of the exact day it happened-the day it all faded from his conscious thoughts: his cramped office, the clatter of the teleprinters, the vile food in the canteen, the crazy lexicon of the place: Double Cross… Mulberry… Phoenix… Kettledrum. Even Helen receded to a sealed chamber of his memory where she could do no more harm. Alice Simpson started coming on weekends and stayed for an entire week in early August.

On the last day of summer he was overcome by the gentle melancholia that afflicts country people when the warm weather is ending. It was a glorious dusk, the horizon streaked in purple and orange, the first bite of autumn in the air. The primroses and bluebells were long gone. He remembered an evening like this half a lifetime ago when Brendan Evans taught him to ride a motorcycle along the pathways of the Fens. It was not quite cold enough for fires, but from his hilltop perch he could see the chimneys of the village gently smoking and taste the sharp scent of green wood on the air.

He saw it then, played out on the hillsides, like the solution of a chess problem. He could see the lines of attack, the preparation, the deception. Nothing had been as it seemed.

Vicary rushed back to the cottage, telephoned the office, and asked for Boothby. Then he realized it was late and it was a Friday-the days of the week meant nothing to him any longer-but by some miracle Boothby was still there, and he answered his own telephone.

Vicary identified himself. Boothby expressed genuine pleasure at hearing his voice. Vicary assured him he was fine.

"I want to talk to you," Vicary said, "about Kettledrum."

There was silence on the line, but Vicary knew Boothby had not abruptly hung up because he could hear him fidgeting in his chair.

"You can't come here any longer, Alfred. You're persona non grata. So I suppose I'll have to come to you."

"Fine. And don't pretend you don't know how to find me because I see your watchers stalking me."

"Tomorrow, midday," Boothby said and rang off.

Boothby arrived promptly at noon in an official Humber, dressed for the country in tweeds, a shirt open at the neck, and a comfortable cardigan sweater. It had rained overnight. Vicary dug out a pair of extra-large Welling-tons from the cellar for Boothby, and they walked like old chums around a meadow dotted with shorn sheep. Boothby chatted about department gossip and Vicary, with considerable effort, feigned interest.

After a while Vicary stopped walking and gazed into the middle distance. "None of it was real, was it?" he said. "Jordan, Catherine Blake-it was all bad right from the beginning."

Boothby smiled seductively. "Not quite, Alfred. But something like that."

He turned and continued walking, his long body a vertical line against the horizon. Then he paused and gestured for Vicary to join him. Vicary broke into his stiff-jointed mechanized limp, chasing after Boothby, beating his pockets for his half-moon glasses.

"It was the nature of Operation Mulberry that presented us with the problem," Boothby began, without warning. "Tens of thousands of people were involved. Of course, the vast majority had no idea what they were working on. Still, the potential for security leaks was tremendous. The components were so large they had to be built right out in the open. The sites were scattered around the country, but some of it was built right at the London docks. As soon as we were told of the project, we knew we had a problem. We knew the Germans would be able to photograph the sites from the air. We knew one decent spy poking around the construction sites could probably figure out what we were up to. We sent one of our men to Selsey to test out the security. He was having tea in the canteen with some of the workers before anyone bothered to ask him for identification."

Boothby laughed mildly. Vicary watched him as he spoke. All the bombast, all the fidgeting, was gone. Sir Basil was calm and collected and pleasant. Vicary thought under different circumstances he might actually have liked him. He had the sickening realization he had underestimated Boothby's intelligence from the beginning. He was also struck by his use of the words we and us. Boothby was a member of the club; Vicary had only been allowed to press his nose against the glass for a brief interval.

"The biggest problem was that Mulberry betrayed our intentions," Boothby resumed. "If the Germans discovered we were building artificial harbors, they might very well have concluded that we intended to avoid the heavily fortified ports of Calais by striking at Normandy. Because the project was so large and difficult to conceal, we had to assume that the Germans would eventually find out what we were up to. Our solution was to steal the secret of Mulberry for them and try to control the game." Boothby looked at Vicary. "All right, Alfred, let's hear it. I want to know how much you've really figured out."

"Walker Hardegen," Vicary said. "I'd say it all started with Walker Hardegen."

"Very good, Alfred. But how?"

"Walker Hardegen was a wealthy banker and business-man, ultraconservative, anticommunist, and probably a little anti-Semitic. He was Ivy League, and he knew half the people in Washington. Went to school with them. The Americans aren't so unlike us in that respect. His business regularly took him to Berlin. When men like Hardegen went to Berlin, they attended embassy dinners and parties. They dined with the heads of Germany's biggest companies and with Nazi officials from the party and the ministries. Hardegen spoke perfect German. He probably admired some of the things the Nazis were doing. He believed Hitler and the Nazis were an important buffer between the Bolsheviks and the rest of Europe. I'd say during one of his visits he came to the attention of the Abwehr or the SD."

"Bravo, Alfred. It was the Abwehr, actually, and the man whose attention he captured was Paul Muller, head of Abwehr operations in America."

"Okay, Muller recruited him. Oh, I suppose he probably soft-pedaled it. Said Hardegen wouldn't really be working for the Nazis. He'd be helping in the struggle against international communism. He asked Hardegen for information on American industrial production, the mood in Washington, things like that. Hardegen said yes and became an agent. I have one question. Was Hardegen already an American agent at this point?"

"No," Boothby said, and smiled. "Remember, this is very early in the game, 1937. The Americans weren't terribly sophisticated then. They did know, however, that the Abwehr was active in the United States, especially in New York. The year before, the plans for the Nor-den bombsight walked out of the country in the briefcase of an Abwehr spy named Nikolaus Ritter. Roosevelt had ordered Hoover to crack down. In 1939, Hardegen was photographed meeting in New York with a known Abwehr agent. Two months later, they saw him again, meeting with another Abwehr agent in Panama City. Hoover wanted to arrest him and put him on trial. God, but the Americans were such plods at the game. Luckily, MI-Six had set up its office in New York by then. They stepped in and convinced Hoover that Hardegen was more use to us still in the game than sitting in some prison cell."

"So who ran him, us or the Americans?"

"It was a joint project really. We fed the Germans a steady stream of excellent material through Hardegen, top-grade stuff. Hardegen's stock soared in Berlin. In the meantime, every aspect of Walker Hardegen's life was placed under a microscope, including his relationship with the Lauterbach family and with a brilliant engineer named Peter Jordan."

"So in 1943, when the decision was made to stage the cross-channel attack at Normandy with the help of an artificial harbor, British and American intelligence approached Peter Jordan and asked him to go to work for us."

"Yes. October 1943, to be precise."

"He was perfect," Vicary said. "He was exactly the type of engineer needed for the project, and he was well known and well respected in his field. All the Nazis had to do was go to the library to read about his accomplishments. The death of his wife also made him personally vulnerable. So late in 1943, you had Hardegen meet with his Abwehr control officer and tell him all about Peter Jordan. How much did you tell them then?"

"Only that Jordan was working on a large construction project connected with the invasion. We also hinted about his vulnerability, as you put it. The Abwehr bit. Muller sold it to Canaris, and Canaris passed it on to Vogel."

"So the entire thing was an elaborate ruse to foist false documents on the Abwehr. And Peter Jordan was the proverbial tethered goat."

"Exactly. The first documents were ambiguous by design. They were open to interpretation and debate. The Phoenix units could be components of an artificial harbor or they could be an antiaircraft complex. We wanted them to fight, to squabble, to tear themselves to bits. Remember your Sun-tzu?"

" 'Undermine your enemy, subvert him, sow discord among his leaders.' "

"Exactly. We wanted to encourage the friction between the SD and the Abwehr. We also didn't want to make it too easy for them. Gradually, the Kettledrum documents painted a clear picture, and that picture was passed directly to Hitler."

"But why go to so much trouble? Why not just use one of the agents that had already been turned? Or one of the fictitious agents? Why use a live engineer? Why not just create one out of whole cloth?"

"Two reasons," Boothby said. "Number one, that's too easy. We wanted to make them work for it. We wanted to influence their thinking subtly. We wanted them to think they were the ones making the decision to target Jordan. Remember the mantra of a Double Cross officer: Intelligence easily obtained is easily discarded. There was a long chain of evidence, so to speak: Hardegen to Muller, Muller to Canaris, Canaris to Vogel, and Vogel to Catherine Blake."

"Impressive," Vicary said. "The second reason?"

"The second reason is that we became aware late in 1943 that we had not accounted for all the German spies operating in Britain. We learned about Kurt Vogel, we learned about his network, and we learned one of his agents was a woman. But we had a serious problem. Vogel had taken such care in burying his agents in Britain that we couldn't locate them unless we brought them into the open. Remember, Bodyguard was about to go into full gear. We were going to bombard the Germans with a blizzard of false intelligence. But we couldn't feel comfortable knowing there were live active agents operating in the country. All of them had to be accounted for. Otherwise, we could never be certain the Germans weren't receiving intelligence that contradicted Bodyguard."

"How did you know about Vogel's network?"

"We were told about it."

"By whom?"

Boothby walked a few paces in silence, contemplating the muddy toes of his Wellington boots. "We were told about the network by Wilhelm Canaris," he said finally.

"Canaris?"

"Through one of his emissaries, actually. In 1943, late summer. This probably will come as a shock to you, but Canaris was a leader of the Schwarze Kapelle. He wanted support from Menzies and the Intelligence Service to help him overthrow Hitler and end the war. In a gesture of goodwill, he told Menzies about the existence of Vogel's network. Menzies informed the Security Service, and together we concocted a scheme called Kettledrum."

"Hitler's chief spy, a traitor. Remarkable. And you knew all this, of course. You knew it the night I was assigned the case. That briefing on the invasion and deception plans… It was designed to ensure my blind loyalty. To motivate me, to manipulate me."

"I'm afraid so, yes."

"So the operation had two goals: deceive them about Mulberry and at the same time draw Vogel's agents into the open so we could neutralize them."

"Yes," Boothby said. "And one other thing-give Canaris a coup to keep his head off the block until the invasion. The last thing we wanted was Schellenberg and Himmler in control. The Abwehr was totally paralyzed and manipulated. We knew that if Schellenberg took over he would question everything Canaris had done. We didn't succeed there, of course. Canaris was fired, and Schellenberg finally got hold of the Abwehr."

"So why didn't Double Cross and Bodyguard collapse with the fall of Canaris?"

"Oh, Schellenberg was more interested in consolidating his empire than running a new crop of agents into England. There was an impressive bureaucratic reorganization-offices moved, files changing hands, that sort of thing. Overseas, he threw out experienced intelligence officers loyal to Canaris and replaced them with unseasoned bloodhounds loyal to the SS and the party. In the meantime, the case officers at Abwehr headquarters went to great lengths to prove the agents operating inside Britain were genuine and productive. Quite simply, it was a matter of life and death for those case officers. If they admitted their agents were under British control, they would have been on the first train east. Or worse."

They walked in silence for a time while Vicary absorbed all he had been told. His head was spinning. He had a thousand questions. He feared Boothby might shut down at any time. He arranged them in order of importance, setting aside his seething emotions. A cloud passed in front of the sun, and it became cold.

"Did it all work?" Vicary asked.

"Yes, it worked brilliantly."

"What about the Lord Haw-Haw broadcast?" Vicary had heard it himself, sitting in the drawing room of Matilda's cottage, and it had sent a shiver through him. We know exactly what you intend to do with those concrete units. You think you are going to sink them on our coasts in the assault. Well, we're going to help you boys…

"It sent panic through the Supreme Allied Command. At least on the surface," Boothby added smugly. "A very small group of officers knew of the Kettledrum deception and realized this was just the last act. Eisenhower cabled Washington and requested fifty picket ships to rescue the crews in case the Mulberries were sunk during the journey across the Channel. We made sure the Germans knew this. Tate, our double with a fictitious source inside SHAEF, transmitted a report of Eisenhower's request to his Abwehr controller. Several days later, the Japanese ambassador toured the coastal defenses and was briefed by Rundstedt. Rundstedt told him about the existence of the Mulberries and explained that an Abwehr agent had discovered they were antiaircraft gun towers. The ambassador cabled this information to his masters in Tokyo. That message, like all his other communications, was intercepted and decoded. At that moment, we knew Kettledrum had worked."

"Who ran the overall operation?"

"MI-Six, actually. They started it, they conceived it, and we let them run it."

"Who knew inside the department?"

"Myself, the DG, and Masterman from the Double Cross Committee."

"Who was the control officer?"

Boothby looked at Vicary. "Broome, of course."

"Who's Broome?"

"Broome is Broome, Alfred."

"There's just one thing I don't understand. Why was it necessary to deceive the case officer?"

Boothby smiled weakly, as though troubled by a mildly unpleasant memory. A pair of pheasant broke from the hedgerow and shot across the pewter-gray sky. Boothby stopped walking and stared at the clouds.

"Looks like rain," he said. "Perhaps we should start heading back."

They turned around and started walking.

"We deceived you, Alfred, because we wanted it all to feel real to the other side. We wanted you to take the same steps you might take in a normal case. You also had no need to know Jordan was working for us the entire time. It wasn't necessary."

"My God!" Vicary snapped. "So you ran me, just like any other agent. You ran me."

"You might say that, yes."

"Why was I chosen? Why not someone else?"

"Because you, like Peter Jordan, were perfect."

"Would you like to explain that?"

"We chose you because you were intelligent and resourceful and under normal circumstances you would have given them a run for their money. My God, you almost saw through the deception while the operation was under way. We also chose you because the tension between us was legendary." Boothby paused and looked down at Vicary. "You weren't exactly discreet in the way you ran me down to the rest of the staff. But most important, we chose you because you were a friend of the prime minister and the Abwehr realized this."

"And when you sacked me, you told the Germans about it through Hawke and Pelican. You hoped that the sacrifice of a personal friend of Winston Churchill's would bolster their belief in the Kettledrum material."

"Exactly. It was all part of the script. And it worked, by the way."

"And Churchill knew?"

"Yes, he knew. He personally approved it. Your old friend betrayed you. He loves black arts, our Winston. If he wasn't the prime minister, I think he would have been a deception officer. I think he rather enjoyed it all. I heard that little pep talk he gave you in the Underground War Rooms was a classic."

"Bastards," Vicary muttered. "Manipulative bastards. But then, I suppose I should consider myself lucky. I could be dead like the others. My God! Do you realize how many people died for the sake of your little game? Pope, his girl, Rose Morely, the two Special Branch men at Earl's Court, the four police officers at Louth and another one at Cleethorpes, Sean Dogherty, Martin Colville."

"You're forgetting Peter Jordan."

"For God's sake, you killed your own agent."

"No, Alfred, you killed him. You're the one who sent him out on that boat. I rather liked it, I must admit. The man whose personal carelessness almost cost us the war dies saving the life of a young girl and atones for his sins. That's how Hollywood would have done it. And that's what the Germans think really happened. And besides, the number of lives lost pales in comparison to the slaughter that would have taken place if Rommel had been waiting for us at Normandy."

"It's just credits and debits? Is that how you look at it? Like one giant accounting sheet? I'm glad I'm out! I don't want any part of it! Not if it means doing things like that. God, but we should have burned people like you at the stake a long time ago."

They crested a last hill. Vicary's house appeared before them in the distance. Matilda's flowering vines spilled over the protective limestone wall. He wanted to be back there-to slam his door and sit by the fire and never think of any of it again. He knew that was impossible now. He wanted to be rid of Boothby. He quickened his pace, pounding down the hill, nearly losing his balance. Boothby, with his long body and athletic legs, struggled to keep pace.

"You don't really feel that way, do you, Alfred? You liked it. You were seduced by it. You liked the manipulation and the deception. Your college wants you back, and you're not sure you want to go because you realize everything you've ever believed in is a lie and my world, this world, is the real world."

"You're not the real world. I'm not sure what you are, but you're not real."

"You can say that now, but I know you miss it all desperately. It's rather like a mistress, the kind of work we do. Sometimes you don't like her very much. You don't like yourself when you're with her. The moments when it feels good are fleeting. But when you try to leave her, something always pulls you back."

"I'm afraid the metaphor is lost on me, Sir Basil."

"There you go again, pretending to be superior, better than the rest of us. I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson by now. You need people like us. The country needs us."

They passed through the gate and into the drive. The gravel crunched beneath their feet. It reminded Vicary of the afternoon he was summoned to Chartwell and given the job at MI5. He remembered the morning at the Underground War Rooms, Churchill's words: You must set aside whatever morals you still have, set aside whatever feelings of human kindness you still possess, and do whatever it takes to win.

At least someone had been honest with him, even if it was a lie at the time.

They stopped at Boothby's Humber.

"You'll understand if I don't invite you in for refreshment," Vicary said. "I'd like to go wash the blood off my hands."

"That's the beauty of it, Alfred." Boothby held up his big paws for Vicary to see. "The blood is on my hands too. But I can't see it and no one else can either. It's a secret stain."

The car's engine fired as Boothby opened the door.

"Who's Broome?" Vicary asked one last time.

Boothby's face darkened, as though a cloud had passed over it.

"Broome is Brendan Evans, your old friend from Cambridge. He told us about that stunt you pulled to get into the Intelligence Corps in the First War. He also told us what happened to you in France. We knew what drove you and what motivated you. We had to-we were running you, after all."

Vicary felt his head beginning to throb.

"I have one more question."

"You want to know if Helen was part of it or whether she came to you on her own."

Vicary stood very still, waiting for an answer.

"Why don't you go find her and ask her for yourself?"

Then Boothby disappeared into his car and was gone.

64

At six o'clock that evening, Lillian Walford cleared her throat, knocked gently on the office door, and let herself inside without waiting for an answer. The professor was there, sitting in the window overlooking Gordon Square, his little body folded over an old manuscript.

"I'll be leaving now, Professor, if you've nothing else for me," she said, beginning the ritualistic closing of books and straightening of papers that always seemed to accompany their Friday evening conversations.

"No, I'll be fine, thank you."

She looked at him, thinking, No, somehow I doubt that very much, Professor. Something about him had changed. Oh, he was never the talkative sort, mind you; never one to strike up a conversation, unless it was completely necessary. But he seemed more withdrawn than ever, poor lamb. And it had grown worse as the term progressed, not better, as she had hoped. There was talk round the college, idle speculation. Some said he had sent men to their death, or ordered men killed. Hard to imagine the professor doing such things, but it made some sense, she had to admit. Something had made him take a vow of silence.

"You'd better be leaving soon, Professor, if you want to make your train."

"I rather thought I'd stay in London for the weekend," he said, without looking up from his work. "I'm interested in seeing what the place looks like at night, now that the lights are back on again."

"That's certainly one thing I hope I never see again, the bloody blackout."

"Something tells me you won't."

She removed his mackintosh from the hook on the back of the door and placed it on the chair next to his desk. He laid down his pencil and looked up at her. Her next action took them both by surprise. Her hand seemed to go to his cheek on its own, by reflex, the way it would reach out for a small child who had just been hurt.

"Are you all right, Professor?"

He drew away sharply and returned his gaze to the manuscript. "Yes, I'm fine," he said. There was a tone in his voice, an edge, she had never heard before. Then he mumbled something under his breath that sounded like "never better."

She turned and walked toward the door. "Have a pleasant weekend," she said.

"I intend to, thank you."

"Good night, Professor Vicary."

"Good night, Miss Walford."

The evening was warm, and by the time he crossed Leicester Square he had removed his mackintosh and folded it over his arm. The dusk was dying, the lights of London slowly coming up. Imagine Lillian Walford, touching his face like that. He had always thought of himself as an adequate dissembler. He wondered if it was that obvious.

He crossed Hyde Park. To his left, a band of Americans played softball in the faint light. To his right, British and Canadians played a noisy game of rugby. He passed a spot where only days before an antiaircraft gun had stood. The gun was gone; only the sandbags remained, like the stones of ancient ruins.

He entered Belgravia, and by instinct he walked toward Helen's house.

I hope you change your mind, and soon.

The blackout shades were up, and the house was ablaze with light. There were two other couples with them. David was wearing his uniform. Helen hung on his arm. Vicary wondered how long he had been standing there, watching them, watching her. Much to his surprise-or was it relief, perhaps-he felt nothing for her. Her ghost had finally left him, this time for good.

He walked away. The King's Road turned to Sloane Square, and Sloane Square to quiet side streets of Chelsea. He looked at his watch; there was still time to make the train. He found a taxi, asked the driver to take him to Paddington Station, and climbed inside. He pulled down the window and felt the warm wind in his face. For the first time in many months, he felt something like contentment, something like peace.

He telephoned Alice Simpson from a phone box at the station, and she agreed to come to the country the next morning. He rang off and had to rush for his train. The carriage was crowded, but he found a seat next to the window in a compartment with two old women and a boyish-faced soldier clutching a cane.

He looked at the soldier and noticed he was wearing the insignia of the 2nd East York Regiment. Vicary knew the boy had been at Normandy-Sword Beach, to be precise-and he was lucky to be alive. The East Yorks had suffered heavy casualties during the first minutes of the invasion.

The soldier noticed Vicary looking at him, and he managed a brief smile.

"Happened at Normandy. Barely made it out of the landing craft." He held up the cane. "Doctors say I'll need to use this for the rest of my life. How'd you get yours-the limp, that is?"

"The First War, France," Vicary said distantly.

"They bring you back for this lot?"

Vicary nodded. "A desk job in a very dull department of the War Office. Nothing important, really."

After a while the soldier slept. Once, in the passing fields, Vicary saw her face, smiling at him, just for an instant. Then he saw Boothby's. Then, as the darkness gathered, his own reflection, riding silently next to him in the glass.