Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

"You must make a stone of your heart, Alfred," Churchill said in a hoarse whisper. "We don't have time for feelings like shame or compassion-none of us, not now. 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. Is that clear?"

"It is, Prime Minister."

Churchill leaned closer and spoke in a confessional tone. "There is an unfortunate truth about war. While it is virtually impossible for one man to win a war, it is entirely possible for one man to lose one." Churchill paused. "For the sake of our friendship, Alfred, don't be that man."

Vicary, shaken by Churchill's admonition, gathered up his things and showed himself to the door. Opening it, he walked out into the corridor. On the wall the weather board, updated hourly, read rainy. Behind him he heard Winston Churchill, alone in his underground chamber, muttering to himself. It took Vicary a moment to understand what the prime minister was saying. "Blasted English weather," Churchill murmured. "Blasted English weather."

Vicary, by instinct, looked for clues in the past. He read and reread decodes of messages sent by agents inside Britain to the radio operators in Hamburg. Decodes of messages sent by Hamburg to the agents inside Britain. Case histories, even cases he had been involved with. He read the final report of one of the first cases he had handled, an incident that had ended in the north of Scotland at a place aptly named Cape Wrath. He read the letter of commendation that went into his file, grudgingly written by Sir Basil Boothby, division head, copy forwarded to Winston Churchill, prime minister. He felt the pride all over again.

Harry Dalton shuttled back and forth between Vicary's desk and Registry like some medieval outrider, bringing new documents in one direction, returning old ones in the other. Other officers, aware of the tension building in Vicary's office, drifted past his doorway in twos and threes like motorists passing a road accident-eyes averted, stealing quick frightened glances. When Vicary would finish with one batch of files, Harry would ask, "Anything?" Vicary would pull a fussy frown and say,

"No, nothing, dammit."

By two o'clock that afternoon the walls were collapsing in on him. He had smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too many cups of murky gray tea.

"I need some fresh air, Harry."

"Get out of here for a couple of hours. Be good for you."

"I'm going to take a walk-have some lunch, perhaps."

"Want some company?"

"No, thanks."

A freezing drizzle, like the smoke of a nearby battle, drifted over Westminster as Vicary marched along the Embankment. A bitterly cold wind rose from the river, clattered the shabby temporary street signs, whistled through a pile of splintered timber and broken brick where once a splendid building stood. Vicary moved quickly with his stiff-jointed mechanical limp, head down, hands plunged into coat pockets. By the look on his face a passing stranger might have guessed he was late for an important meeting or fleeing an unpleasant one.

The Abwehr had just so many ways of inserting an agent into Britain. Many put ashore in small boats launched from submarines. Vicary had just read arrest reports of double agents code-named Mutt and Jeff; they waded ashore from an Arado seaplane near the herring fishing village of Macduff east of Spey Bay. Vicary already had asked the coastguards and Royal Navy to be especially vigilant. But the British coastline stretches many thousands of miles, impossible to cover entirely, and the chances of catching an agent on a darkened beach were slim.

The Abwehr had parachuted spies into Britain. It was impossible to account for every square inch of airspace, but Vicary had asked the RAF to be watchful of stray aircraft.

The Abwehr had dropped and landed agents in Eire and Ulster. To get to England they had to take the ferry. Vicary had asked the ferry operators in Liverpool to keep an eye out for strange passengers: anyone unfamiliar with the routine of ferry passage, uncomfortable with the language or currency. He couldn't give them a description because he didn't have one.

The brisk walk and cold weather made him hungry. He entered a pub near Victoria Station and ordered a vegetable pie and a half pint of beer.

You must make a stone of your heart, Churchill had said.

Unfortunately, he had done that a long time ago. Helen… She was the spoiled, attractive daughter of a wealthy industrialist, and Vicary, against his better judgment, had fallen hopelessly in love with her. Their relationship began to crumble the afternoon they made love for the first time. Somehow, Helen's father had read the signs correctly: the way they held hands on the way back from the lake, the way Helen touched Vicary's already thinning hair. That evening he summoned Helen for a private chat. Under no circumstances would she be allowed to marry the son of a midlevel bank clerk who attended university on a scholarship. Helen was instructed to terminate the relationship as quickly and quietly as possible, and she did exactly as she was told. She was that kind of girl. Vicary never held it against her, and he loved her still. But something went out of him that day. He supposed it was his ability to trust. He wondered if he would ever get it back.

It is virtually impossible for one man to win a war…

Vicary thought, Damn the Old Man for laying that on my shoulders.

The publican, a well-fed woman, appeared at the table. "That bad, dearie?"

Vicary looked down at his plate. The carrots and potatoes had been pushed to the side and he had been absently trailing the point of his knife through the gravy. He looked at the plate carefully and noticed he had traced an outline of Britain in the brown mess.

He thought, Where will that damned spy land?

"It was fine," Vicary said politely, handing the plate over. "I suppose I wasn't quite as hungry as I thought."

Outside Vicary turned up the collar of his overcoat and started back toward the office.

It is entirely possible for one man to lose one.

Dead leaves rattled across Vicary's path as he hurried along Birdcage Walk. The afternoon's last light retreated with little resistance. In the gathering darkness, Vicary could see the blackout curtains closing like eyelids in the windows overlooking St. James's Park. He imagined Helen standing in one of the windows, watching him hurry along the walkway below. He entertained a wild fantasy that by solving the case, arresting the spies, and winning the war he would prove himself worthy of her and she would have him back.

Don't be that man.

There was something else Churchill had said; he had been complaining about the ceaseless rain. The prime minister, safe in the shelter of his subterranean fortress, complaining about the weather…

Vicary rushed past the guard at MI5 headquarters without showing his identification badge.

"Any inspiration?" Harry asked, when Vicary returned to his office.

"Perhaps. If you needed to get a spy into the country on short notice, Harry, which route would you use?"

"I suppose I'd come through the east: Kent, East Anglia, even eastern Scotland."

"My thoughts exactly."

"So?"

"If you were mustering an operation quickly, which mode of transportation would you choose?"

"That depends."

"Come on, Harry!"

"I suppose I'd choose an airplane."

"Why not a submarine-put the spy ashore in a raft?"

"Because it's easier to get a small plane on short notice than a precious submarine."

"Exactly, Harry. And what do you need to drop a spy into England by plane?"

"Decent weather, for one thing."

"Right again, Harry."

Vicary snatched up the telephone receiver and waited for the operator to come on the line. "This is Vicary. Connect me with the RAF meteorological service immediately."