Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Leamann. Is that a German name?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something like that," Leamann said.

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

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

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

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

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