Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

"I assure you I won't be offended."

"The smaller one said, 'When I find that' "-she paused, lowering her voice, embarrassed to say the words-" 'when I find that fucking bitch I'm going to kill her myself.' "

Meadows frowned. "You're certain of that?"

"Oh, yes. When you don't often hear language like that, it's hard to forget."

"I'll say." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Good morning, Mrs. Wright."

"Good morning, Detective-Sergeant."

Meadows put on his hat and saw himself to the door. So they were looking for a woman. Maybe it wasn't the Popes after all. Maybe it was just two blokes looking for a girl. Maybe the similar descriptions were just coincidence. Meadows didn't believe in coincidence. He would drive back to the Popes' warehouse and see if anyone had spotted a woman hanging around there lately.

Catherine Blake assumed that Allied officers who knew the most important secret of the war had been made aware of the threat posed by spies. Why else would Commander Peter Jordan handcuff his briefcase to his wrist for a short walk across Grosvenor Square? She also assumed that officers had been warned about approaches by women. Earlier in the war she had seen a poster outside a club frequented by British officers. It showed a luscious, big-breasted blonde in a low-cut evening gown, waiting for an officer to light her cigarette for her. Across the bottom of the poster were the words KEEP IT MUM, SHE'S NOT SO DUMB. Catherine thought it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. If there were women like that-tarts who hung around clubs or parties listening for gossip and secrets-she did not know about them. She did suspect that such indoctrination would make Peter Jordan distrustful of a beautiful woman suddenly vying for his attention. He was also a successful, intelligent, and attractive man. He would be very discriminating in the women he chose to spend time with. The scene at the Savoy the other night was evidence of that. He had become angry with his friend Shepherd Ramsey for setting him up with a young, stupid girl. Catherine would have to make her approach very carefully.

Which explained why she was standing on a corner near the Vandyke Club with a bag of groceries in her arms.

It was shortly before six o'clock. London was shrouded in the blackout. The evening traffic gave off just enough light for her to see the doorway of the club. A few minutes later a man of medium height and build emerged. It was Peter Jordan. He paused for a moment to button his overcoat. If he kept to his evening routine he would walk the short distance to his house. If he broke his routine by flagging down a taxi, Catherine would be out of luck. She would be forced to come back again tomorrow night with her bag of groceries.

Jordan turned up the collar of his overcoat and started walking her way. Catherine Blake waited for a moment and then stepped directly in front of him.

When they collided there was the sound of paper splitting and tins of food tumbling to the pavement.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Please, let me help you up."

"No, it's my fault. I'm afraid I've misplaced my blackout torch and I've been wandering around out here lost. I feel like such a fool."

"No, it's my fault. I was trying to prove to myself that I could find my way home in the dark. Here, I have a torch. Let me turn it on."

"Do you mind turning the beam toward the pavement? I believe my rations are rolling toward Hyde Park."

"Here, take my hand."

"Thank you. By the way, you can stop shining the light in my face any time now."

"I'm sorry, you're just-"

"Just what?"

"Never mind. I don't think that sack of flour survived."

"That's all right."

"Here, let me help you pick these things up."

"I can manage. Thank you."

"No, I insist. And let me replace the flour for you. I have plenty of food at my house. My problem is I don't know what to do with it."

"Doesn't the navy feed you?"

"How did-"

"I'm afraid the uniform and the accent gave you away. Besides, only an American officer would be silly enough to intentionally walk the streets of London without using a torch. I've lived here all my life, and I still can't find my way round in the blackout."

"Please, let me replace the things you've lost."

"That's a very kind offer but it's not necessary. It was a pleasure bumping into you."

"Yes-yes, it was."

"Can you kindly point me in the direction of Brompton Road?"

"It's that way."

"Thank you very much."

She turned and started to walk away.

"Hold on a minute. I have another suggestion."

She stopped walking and turned around.

"And what might that be?"

"I wonder if you might have a drink with me sometime."

She hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure I want to drink with a frightful American who insists on walking the streets of London without a torch. But I suppose you look harmless enough. So the answer is yes."

She walked away again.

"Wait, come back. I don't even know your name."

"It's Catherine," she called. "Catherine Blake."

"I need your telephone number," Jordan said helplessly.

But she had melted into the darkness and was gone.

When Peter Jordan arrived home he went into his study, picked up the telephone, and dialed. He identified himself, and a pleasant female voice instructed him to remain on the line. A moment later he heard the English-accented voice of the man he knew only as Broome.

Alfred Vicary was being stretched to the breaking point. Despite the intense pressure to capture the spies, Vicary had kept his old caseload-the Becker network. He had considered asking to be relieved of it until after the spies had been arrested, but he quickly rejected the idea. He was the genius behind the Becker network; it was his masterpiece. It had taken countless hours to build and countless more to sustain. He would keep control of it and try to capture the spies at the same time. It was a brutal assignment. His right eye was beginning to twitch the way it did during final examinations at Cambridge, and he recognized the early symptoms of nervous exhaustion.

Partridge was the code name of a degenerate lorry driver whose routes happened to take him into restricted military zones in Suffolk, Kent, and East Sussex. He subscribed to the beliefs of Sir Oswald Mosley, the British Fascist, and he used the money he made from spying to buy whores. Sometimes he brought the girls along on his trips so they could give him sex while he drove. He liked Karl Becker because Becker always had a young girl stashed away and he was always willing to share-even with the likes of Partridge.

But Partridge existed only in Vicary's imagination, on the airwaves, and in the minds of his German control officers in Hamburg. Luftwaffe surveillance photos had detected new activity in southeast England, and Berlin had asked Becker to assess the enemy activity and report back within one week. Becker had given the assignment to Partridge-or, rather, Vicary had done it for him. It was the opportunity Vicary had been waiting for, an invitation from the Abwehr to transmit false intelligence about the ersatz First United States Army Group being assembled in southeast England.

Partridge-according to Vicary's concocted scenario-had driven through the Kent countryside at midday. In fact, Vicary had journeyed the same route that morning in the back of a department Rover. From his perch on the leather seat, wrapped in a traveling rug, Vicary imagined the signs of a military buildup an agent like Partridge might see. He might see more military lorries on the road. He might spot a group of American officers at the pub where he ate lunch. At the garage where he stopped for petrol, he might hear rumors that nearby roads were being widened. The information was trivial, the clues small, but totally consistent with Partridge's cover. Vicary couldn't allow him to discover something extraordinary like General Patton's field headquarters; his Abwehr controllers would never believe an agent like Partridge was capable of that. But Partridge's small clues, when incorporated into the rest of the deception scheme, would help paint the picture British Intelligence wanted the Germans to see-a massive Allied force waiting to strike across the Channel at Calais.