Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

The telephone rang.

"Vicary."

"This is Commander Arthur Braithwaite at the Submarine Tracking Room. I saw your alert when I arrived on duty, and I think I may be of some rather serious help."

"The Submarine Tracking Room says U-509 has been moving in and out of the waters off the Lincolnshire coast for a couple of weeks now," Vicary said. Boothby had come downstairs and joined Vicary's vigil in front of the map. "If we pour our men and resources into Lincolnshire, we stand a good chance of stopping them."

"It's still a lot of coastline to cover."

Vicary was looking at the map again.

"What's the largest town up there?"

"Grimsby, I'd say."

"How appropriate- Grimsby. How long do you think it would take me to get up there?"

"Transport section could arrange a lift for you, but it would take hours."

Vicary grimaced. Transport maintained a few fast cars for cases just like this. There were expert drivers on standby who specialized in high-speed chases; a couple of them had even competed in professional races before the war. Vicary thought the drivers, while brilliant, were too reckless. He remembered the night he pulled the spy off the beach in Cornwall; remembered barreling through the blacked-out Cornish night in the back of a souped-up Rover, praying he would live long enough to make the arrest.

Vicary said, "How about an airplane?"

"I'm sure I could arrange a lift for you from the RAF. There's a small Fighter Command base outside Grimsby. They could have you up there in an hour or so, and you could use the base as your command post. But have you taken a look out the window lately? It's a god-awful night for flying."

"I realize that, but I'm certain I could do a better job coordinating the search if I was on the ground there." Vicary turned from the map and looked at Boothby. "And there's something else that's occurred to me. If we're able to stop them before they send Berlin a message, perhaps I can send it for them."

"Devise some explanation for their decision to flee London that bolsters the belief in Kettledrum?"

"Exactly."

"Good thinking, Alfred."

"I'd like to take a couple of men with me: Roach, Dalton if he's up to it."

Boothby hesitated. "I think you should take one other person."

"Who?"

"Peter Jordan."

"Jordan!"

"Look at it from the other side of the looking glass. If Jordan has been deceived and betrayed, wouldn't he want to be there at the end to watch Catherine Blake's demise? I know I certainly would. I'd want to pull the trigger myself, if I were in his shoes. And the Germans have to think that too. We have to do anything we can to make them believe in the illusion of Kettledrum."

Vicary thought of the empty file in Registry.

The telephone rang again.

"Vicary."

It was one of the department operators.

"Professor Vicary, I have a trunk call from Chief Superintendent Perkin of the King's Lynn police in Norfolk. He says it's quite urgent."

"Put him through."

Hampton Sands was too small, too isolated, and too quiet to warrant its own police constable. It shared one constable with four other Norfolk coast villages. Holme, Thornton, Titchwell, and Brancaster. The constable was a man named Thomasson, a police veteran who had worked the Norfolk coast since the last war. Thomasson lived in a police house in Brancaster and, because of the requirements of his work, had his own telephone.

One hour earlier the telephone had rung, waking Thomasson, his wife, and his English setter, Rags. The voice at the other end of the line was Chief Superintendent Perkin from King's Lynn. The superintendent told Thomasson about the urgent telephone call he had received from the War Office in London, asking for assistance from local police forces in the search for two fugitive murder suspects.

Ten minutes after receiving Perkin's telephone call, Thomasson was letting himself out the door of the cottage, wearing a blue oilskin cape and a sou'wester knotted beneath his chin and carrying a flask of sweet tea Judith had quickly made for him. He pushed his bicycle around from the shed at the back of the house, then set off toward the center of the village. Rags, who always accompanied Thomasson on his rounds, trotted easily next to him.

Thomasson was in his midfifties. He never smoked, rarely touched alcohol, and thirty years of cycling the rolling coastline of Norfolk had left him fit and very strong. His thick, well-muscled legs pumped easily, propelling the heavy iron bicycle into Brancaster. As he suspected, the village was dead quiet. He could knock on a few doors, wake a few people up, but he knew everyone in the village and none of them were housing fugitive murderers. He took one pass through the silent streets, then turned onto the coast road and pedaled toward the next village, Hampton Sands.

The Colville cottage was about a quarter mile outside the village. Everyone knew about Martin Colville. He had been deserted by his wife, was a heavy drinker, and barely scratched a living from his smallholding. Thomasson knew Colville was too hard on his daughter, Jenny. He also knew Jenny spent a great deal of time in the dunes; Thomasson had found her things after one of the locals complained about tinkers living on the beach. He coasted to a stop and shined his torch toward the Colville cottage. It was dark, and there was no smoke coming from the chimney.

Thomasson pushed his bike up the drive and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Fearing Colville could be drunk or passed out, he knocked again, harder. Again, no answer. He pushed the door open and looked inside. The interior was dark. He called Colville's name one last time. Hearing no answer, he left the cottage and continued on into Hampton Sands.

Hampton Sands, like Brancaster, was quiet and blacked out. Thomasson cycled through the village, past the Arms, the village store, and St. John's Church. He crossed the bridge over the sea creek. Sean and Mary Dogherty lived about a mile outside the village. Thomasson knew that Jenny Colville practically lived with the Doghertys. It was very likely she was spending the night there. But where was Martin?

It was a difficult mile, the track rising and falling beneath him. Ahead of him, in the darkness, he could hear the click of Rags's paws on the track and the steady rhythm of his breathing. The Dogherty cottage appeared before him. He pedaled up to the drive, stopped, and shined his torch back and forth.

Something in the meadow caught his attention. He played the beam of light across the grass and there -there it was again. He waded forward into the saturated meadow and reached down for the object. It was an empty jerry can. He sniffed-petrol. He turned it upside down. A thread of fuel trickled out.

Rags walked ahead of him toward the Dogherty cottage. He saw Sean Dogherty's dilapidated old van parked in the yard. Then he spotted a pair of bicycles lying in the grass beside the barn. Thomasson walked to the cottage and knocked on the door. Like the Colville cottage, there was no answer.

Thomasson didn't bother knocking a second time. He was by now thoroughly alarmed by what he had seen. He pushed back the door and called out "Hello!" He heard a strange sound, a muffled grunting. He shone his torch into the room and saw Mary Dogherty, tied to a chair, a gag around her mouth.

Thomasson rushed forward, Rags barking furiously, and quickly untied the cloth around her face.

"Mary! What in God's name happened here?"

Mary, hysterical, gasped for air.

"Sean-Martin-dead-barn-spies-submarine-Jenny!"

"Vicary here."

"Chief Superintendent Perkin of the King's Lynn police."

"What have you got?"

"Two dead bodies, a hysterical woman, and a missing girl."

"My God! Start from the beginning."