Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

Catherine knew the answer, of course. But she needed to ask the question. It was rare for an American officer to be living alone in such a place.

"My father-in-law bought the house years ago. He spent a great deal of time in London on both business and pleasure and decided he wanted a pied-a-terre here. I have to admit I'm glad he bought it. The thought of spending the war packed like a sardine in Grosvenor House really doesn't appeal to me. Here, let me take your coat."

He helped her off with her overcoat and went to hang it in the closet. Catherine surveyed the drawing room. It was handsomely furnished with the sort of deep leather couches and chairs one finds in a private London club. The walls were paneled; the wood floors were stained a deep brown and polished to a lustrous shine. The rugs scattered about were of excellent quality. There was one unique feature about the room-the walls were covered with photographs of bridges.

"You're married, then," Catherine said, making sure there was a slight note of disappointment in her voice.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, returning to the room.

"You said your father-in-law owns this house."

"I suppose I should say my former father-in-law. My wife was killed in an automobile accident before the war."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to-"

"Please, it's fine. It was a long time ago."

She nodded toward the wall and said, "You like bridges."

"You might say that, yes. I build them."

Catherine walked across the room and looked at one of the photographs close up. It was the Hudson River bridge for which Jordan had been named Engineer of the Year in 1938.

"You designed these?"

"Actually, architects design them. I'm an engineer. They put a design on paper and I tell them whether the thing will stand up or not. Sometimes I make them change the design. Sometimes, if it's terrific like that one, I find a way to make it work."

"Sounds challenging."

"It can be," he said. "But sometimes it can be tedious and dull, and it makes for boring conversation at cocktail parties."

"I didn't know the navy needed bridges."

"They don't." Jordan hesitated. "I'm sorry. I can't discuss my-"

"Please. Believe me, I understand the rules."

"I could do the cooking, but I couldn't guarantee that the food would be edible."

"Just show me where the kitchen is."

"Through that door. If you don't mind, I'd like to change. I still can't get used to wearing this damned uniform."

"Certainly."

She watched his next movements very carefully. He removed his keys from his trouser pocket and unlocked a door. That would be his study. He switched on the light and was inside for less than a minute. When he emerged Jordan was no longer carrying his briefcase. He probably locked it inside his safe. He climbed the stairs. His bedroom was on the second floor. It was perfect. While he was sleeping upstairs she could break into his safe and photograph the contents of his briefcase. Neumann would make sure the photographs reached Berlin, and the Abwehr analysts would examine them to discover the nature of Peter Jordan's work.

She went through the doorway into the kitchen and was struck by a flash of panic. Why was he suddenly changing out of his uniform? Had she done something wrong? Made some mistake? Was he on the phone right now to MI5? Was MI5 calling Special Branch? Would he come downstairs and sweet-talk her until they broke down the door and arrested her?

Catherine forced herself to relax. It was ludicrous.

When she opened the door to the refrigerator she realized something. She didn't have the vaguest idea how to make an omelet. Maria made excellent omelets-she would just imitate everything she did. From the refrigerator she took three eggs, a small pat of butter, and a chunk of cheddar. She opened the door to the small pantry and found a tin of tomatoes and a bottle of wine. She opened it, found the wineglasses, and poured for them both. She didn't wait until Jordan returned to try the wine; it was delicious. She could taste wildflowers and lavender and apricot, and it made her think of her imaginary villa. Warm the tomatoes first-that's what Maria did, except before, in Paris, the tomatoes were fresh tomatoes, not these beastly tinned ones.

She opened the tomatoes, drained off the water, chopped them, and dropped them into a hot pan. The kitchen immediately took on the smell of the tomatoes, and she drank some more wine before cracking and beating the eggs and grating the cheese into a bowl. She had to smile-the domestic routine of making dinner for a man felt so odd to her. Then she thought, Perhaps Kurt Vogel should add a cooking course to his little Abwehr spy school.

Jordan set the table in the dining room while Catherine finished with the omelet. He had changed into cotton khaki trousers and a sweater, and Catherine was again struck by his looks. She wanted to let down her hair-to do something to make herself more attractive to him-but she stayed within the character she had created for herself. The omelet was surprisingly good and they both ate it very quickly before it could go cold, washing it down with the wine, a prewar Bordeaux Jordan had brought to London from New York. By the end of the meal Catherine felt pleasant and relaxed. Jordan seemed that way too. He appeared to suspect nothing-appeared to accept that their meeting was wholly coincidental.

"Have you ever been to the States?" he asked, as they cleared away the dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

"Actually, I lived in Washington for two years when I was a little girl."

"Really?"

"Yes, my father worked at the Foreign Office. He was a diplomat. He was posted in Washington in the early twenties, after the Great War. I liked it very much. Except for the heat, of course. My goodness, but Washington is oppressive in the summer! My father rented a cottage for us on the Chesapeake Bay for the summers. I have very fond memories of that time."

All true, except Catherine's father had worked for the German Foreign Ministry, not the British Foreign Office. Catherine had decided it was best to draw on as many aspects of her own life as possible.

"Is your father still a diplomat?"

"No, he died before the war."

"And your mother?"

"My mother died when I was a very little girl." Catherine stacked the dirty dishes in the sink. "I'll wash if you dry."

"Forget it. I have a woman who comes a couple of times a week. She'll be here in the morning. How about a glass of brandy?"

"That would be nice."

There were photographs in silver frames over the fireplace, and she looked at them while Jordan poured the brandy. He joined her in front of the fire and handed her one of the glasses.

"Your wife was very beautiful."

"Yes, she was. Her death was very hard on me."

"And your son? Who's caring for him now?"

"Margaret's sister, Jane."

She sipped her brandy and smiled at him. "You don't sound terribly thrilled about that."

"My God, is it that obvious?"

"Yes, it is."

"Jane and I never really got along very well. And frankly, I wish Billy wasn't in her care. She's selfish and petty and spoiled rotten, and I'm afraid she's going to make Billy the same way. But I really had no choice. The day after I joined the navy, I was sent to Washington, and two weeks after that I was flown to London."

"Billy is the image of his father," Catherine said. "I'm certain you have nothing to worry about."

Jordan smiled and said, "I hope you're right. Please, sit down."

"Are you sure? I don't want to keep you-"

"I haven't had an evening as pleasant as this in a very long time. Please stay a little longer."

They sat down next to each other on the large leather couch.

Jordan said, "So tell me how it is that an incredibly beautiful woman like you isn't married."