Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

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

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

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

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

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

"He might, he might not."

"What do you mean by that, Nicholas?"

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

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

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

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

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

What's the name?

Kurt Vogel.

Christ! Let me take a look for it.

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

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

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

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

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

Vicary was flipping through the file again.

"You have a theory?" Harry asked.

"Three theories, actually."

"Let's hear them."

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

"Theory two?"

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

"Theory three?"

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

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

"We have to assume it is."

"Then all our doubles would be at risk."

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

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

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

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

"Right."

"That could make him dangerous."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do it quietly."