Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

She was angrily digging through the files on the cart. She grabbed a bunch and began replacing them on the shelves.

"I know all about it, Harry."

"How do you know?"

"Because he blamed it on me. He wrote a letter of reprimand and put it in my file, the bastard."

"Who blamed you?"

"Jago!" she hissed.

"Why?"

"To cover his arse, that's why."

She was digging through the files again. Harry reached out and took her hands in his to make her stop. "Grace, I need to see that access list."

"The access list won't tell you anything. The person who had that file before Vicary doesn't leave a trail."

"Grace, please. I'm begging."

"I like it when you beg, Harry."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Why don't you come over for some dinner one night?" She dragged the tip of her finger over the back of Harry's hand. It was black from sorting files. "I miss your company. We'll talk, have a few laughs, nothing else."

"I'd like that, Grace." It was the truth. He missed her very much.

"If you tell anyone where you got this, Harry, so help me God-"

"It stays between you and me."

"Not even Vicary," she insisted. Harry put his hand over his heart. "Not even Vicary." Grace picked up another handful of files, then looked up at him. With her bloodred lips she mouthed the initials BB.

"How is it possible you don't have a single lead?" Basil Boothby said as Vicary sank down into the deep overstuffed couch. Sir Basil had demanded nightly updates on the progress of the investigation. Vicary, knowing Boothby's passion for having things in writing, suggested a concise note, but Sir Basil wanted to be briefed in person.

Tonight, Boothby had an engagement. He had mumbled something about "the Americans" to explain the fact he was dressing in his formal wear when Vicary was shown into the office. While he spoke his big paw was engaged in an abortive effort to stuff a gold cuff link through the starched cuff of his shirt. Sir Basil had a valet to assist him with such tedious tasks at home.

Vicary's briefing was suspended a moment while Boothby summoned his pretty secretary to help him dress. It gave him a moment to process the information Harry had given him. It was Sir Basil who had pulled Vogel's file. He tried to remember their first conversation. What was it Boothby had said? Registry may have something on him.

Boothby's secretary slipped quietly out. Vicary resumed his briefing. They had men watching every rail station in London. Their hands were tied because they had no description of the agents they were supposed to be looking for. Harry Dalton had compiled a list of every known location used by German agents for rendezvous points. Vicary had men watching as many of those as he could.

"I'd give you more men, Alfred, but there aren't any," Boothby said. "The watchers are all pulling double and triple shifts. The head of the watchers is complaining to me that you're running them into the ground. The cold is killing them. Half of them have been struck down by the flu."

"I'm sympathetic to the plight of the watchers, Sir Basil. I'm using them as judiciously as possible."

Boothby lit a cigarette and sipped his gin and bitters while pacing the length of the room. "We have three German agents loose in the country outside our control. I don't need to tell you how serious this is. If one of those agents tries to contact one of our doubles, we're going to be in trouble. The whole Double Cross apparatus will be in jeopardy."

"My guess is they won't try to contact any other agents."

"Why not?"

"Because I think Vogel is running his own show. I think we're dealing with a separate network of agents we never knew about."

"That's just a hunch, Alfred. We need to deal with the facts."

"Ever read Vogel's file?" Vicary said, as carelessly as possible.

"No."

And you're a liar, Vicary thought. "Judging by the way this affair has unfolded, I'd say Vogel has kept a network of sleeper agents inside Britain, on ice, since before the beginning of the war. If I had to guess, the primary agent is operating in London, the subagent somewhere in the countryside, where he could take in an agent on short notice. The agent who arrived last night is almost certainly here to brief the lead agent on his assignment. For all we know, they're meeting right now as we speak. And we're falling further and further behind."

"Interesting, Alfred, but it's all based on guesswork."

"Educated guesswork, Sir Basil. In the absence of hard, provable facts, I'm afraid that's our only recourse." Vicary hesitated, aware of the response his next suggestion was likely to generate. "In the meantime, I think we should schedule a meeting with General Betts to brief him on developments."

Boothby's face sagged into an angry frown. Brigadier General Thomas Betts was the deputy chief of intelligence at SHAEF. Tall, bearlike, Betts had one of the most unenviable jobs in London-making sure none of the several hundred American and British officers who knew the secret of Overlord gave that secret, intentionally or unintentionally, to the enemy.

"That's premature, Alfred."

"Premature? You said it yourself, Sir Basil. We have three German spies on the loose."

"I've got to go down the hall and brief the director-general in a moment. If I suggest to him that we broadcast our failures to the Americans, he will fall on me from a very great height."

"I'm sure the DG won't be too hard on you, Sir Basil." Vicary knew that Boothby had convinced the director-general that he was indispensable. "Besides, it's hardly a failure."

Boothby stopped pacing. "What would you call it?"

"A temporary setback."

Boothby snorted and crushed out his cigarette. "I will not permit you to tarnish the reputation of this department, Alfred. I won't have it."

"Perhaps there's something else you should consider besides the reputation of this department, Sir Basil."

"What's that?"

Vicary struggled out of the soft, deep couch. "If the spies succeed, we may very well lose the war."

"Well, then, do something, Alfred."

"Thank you, Sir Basil. That's certainly sound advice."

From Hyde Park they took a taxi into Earl's Court. They paid off the driver a quarter mile from her flat. During the short walk they doubled back twice, and Catherine made a bogus call from a phone box. They were not being tailed. Her landlady, Mrs. Hodges, was in the hall as they arrived. Catherine threaded her arm through Neumann's. Mrs. Hodges shot her a glance of disapproval as they walked upstairs.

Catherine was reluctant to take him to her flat. She had jealously protected its whereabouts and refused to provide the address to Berlin. The last thing she needed was some agent on the run from MI5 to come pounding on her door in the middle of the night. But meeting in public was out of the question; they had much to discuss, and doing it in a cafe or a railway station was too dangerous.

She watched Neumann as he led himself on a tour of her flat. She could tell by the precise walk and economical gestures that he had been a soldier once. His English was flawless. Clearly, Vogel had chosen him carefully. At least he wasn't sending some rank amateur to brief her. He went to the drawing room window, parted the curtains, and gazed down into the street.

"Even if they're out there, you'll never spot them," Catherine said as she sat down.

"I know-but it makes me feel better to look." He came away from the window. "It's been a long day. I could use a cup of tea."

"Everything you need is in the kitchen. Help yourself."

Neumann set water on the stove to boil, then came back into the room.

"What's your name?" she asked him. "Your real name."