Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

The morning had been like being in a dream. It felt as if she had been magically turned into someone else and dropped into their world. She dressed and made coffee while Jordan shaved and showered; the placid domestic scene felt bizarre to her. She felt a stab of fear when he unlocked the study door and went inside. Did I leave anything out of place? Does he realize I was in there last night? They had shared a taxi. During the short ride to Grosvenor Square she was struck by another thought: What if he doesn't want to see me again? It had never occurred to her before that moment. All of it would have been for nothing unless he truly cared for her. Her concerns had been groundless. As the taxi arrived at Grosvenor Square he asked her to have dinner with him that evening at an Italian restaurant in Charlotte Street.

Catherine turned around and retraced her steps along the Embankment. Neumann was there now, walking toward her, hands plunged into the pockets of his reefer coat, collar up against the rain, slouch hat pulled down close to his eyes. He had a good look for a field agent: small, anonymous, yet vaguely menacing. Put a suit on him and he could attend a Belgravia cocktail party. Dressed as he was now, he could walk the toughest docks in London and no one would dare look at him twice. She wondered if he had ever studied acting, like she had.

"You look like you could use a cup of coffee," he said. "There's a nice warm cafe not too far from here."

Neumann held out an arm to her. She took it and they strolled along the Embankment. It was very cold. She gave him the film and he carelessly dropped it into his pocket, as though it were spare change. Vogel had trained him well.

Catherine said, "You know where to deliver this, I assume."

"Cavendish Square. A man from the Portuguese embassy named Hernandez will pick it up at three o'clock this afternoon and place it in the diplomatic pouch. It will go to Lisbon tonight and be in Berlin in the morning."

"Very good."

"What is it, by the way?"

"His appointment book, some photographs of his study. Not much, but it's a start."

"Very impressive," Neumann said. "How did you get it?"

"I let him take me to dinner; then I let him take me to bed. I got up in the middle of the night and slipped into his study. The combination worked, by the way. I also saw the inside of his safe."

Neumann shook his head. "That's risky as hell. If he comes downstairs you're in trouble."

"I know. That's why I need these." She reached into her handbag and gave him the block of clay with the imprints of the keys. "Find someone to make copies of these and deliver them to my flat today. Tomorrow, when he goes to work, I'm going to go back inside his house and photograph everything in that study."

Neumann pocketed the block of clay.

"Right. Anything else?"

"Yes, from now on, no more conversations like this. We bump into each other, I give you the film, you walk away and deliver it to the Portuguese. If you have a message for me, write it down and give it to me. Understood?"

"Understood."

They stopped walking. "Well, you have a very busy day ahead of you, Mr. Porter." She kissed his cheek and said into his ear, "I risked my life for those things. Don't fuck it up now."

Then she turned and walked away down the Embankment.

The first problem confronting Horst Neumann that morning was finding someone to make copies of Peter Jordan's keys. No reputable shop in the West End would make a duplicate key based on an imprint. In fact they would probably call the Metropolitan Police and have him arrested. He needed to go to a neighborhood where he might find a shopkeeper willing to do the job for the right price. He walked along the Thames, crossed Battersea Bridge, and headed into South London.

It didn't take Neumann long to find what he was looking for. The shop's windows had been blown out by a bomb. Now they were boarded up with plywood. Neumann stepped inside. There were no customers, just an older man behind the counter wearing a heavy blue shirt and a grimy apron.

Neumann said, "You make keys, mate?"

The clerk inclined his head toward the grinder.

Neumann took the clay from his pocket. "You know how to make keys from something like this?"

"Yep, but it will cost you."

"How's ten shillings sound?"

The clerk smiled; he had about half his teeth. "Sounds like sweet music." He took the clay. "Be ready by tomorrow noon."

"I need them right now."

The clerk was smiling his horrid smile again. "Well, now, that's going to cost you another ten bob."

Neumann laid the money on the counter. "I'll wait here while you cut them, if you don't mind."

"Suit yourself."

In the afternoon the rain stopped. Neumann walked a great deal. When he wasn't walking he was jumping on and off buses and rushing in and out of the underground. He had only the vaguest memories of London from when he was a boy, and he actually enjoyed spending the day in the city. It was a relief from the boredom of Hampton Sands. Nothing to do there except run on the beach and read and help Sean in the meadows with the sheep. Leaving the hardware shop, he pocketed the duplicate keys and recrossed Battersea Bridge. He took Catherine's block of clay, crushed it so as to erase the imprints, and tossed it into the Thames. It broke the surface with a deep bloop and vanished into the swirling water.

He meandered through Chelsea and Kensington and finally into Earl's Court. He placed the keys in an envelope and the envelope through Catherine's letter box. Then he took his lunch at a window table of a crowded cafe. A woman two tables away made eyes at him throughout the meal, but he had brought a newspaper for protection and looked up only occasionally to smile at her. It was tempting; she was attractive enough and it might be an enjoyable way to kill the rest of the afternoon and get off the streets for a while. It was insecure, however. He paid his bill, winked at her, and walked out.

Fifteen minutes later he stopped at a phone box, picked up the receiver, and dialed a local number. It was answered by a man who spoke heavily accented English. Neumann politely asked for a Mr. Smythe; the fellow at the other end of the line protested a little too vehemently that there was no one named Smythe at this number. Then he violently rang off. Neumann smiled and returned the receiver to its cradle. The exchange was a crude code. The man was the Portuguese courier Carlos Hernandez. When Neumann called and asked for someone with a name beginning with an S, the courier was to go to Cavendish Square and collect the material.

He still had an hour to kill. He walked in Kensington, skirting Hyde Park, and arrived at Marble Arch. The clouds thickened and it started to rain-just a few cold, fat drops to begin with, then a steady downpour. He ducked into a bookshop in a small street off Portman Square. He browsed for a bit, dismissing an offer of assistance from the dark-haired girl standing atop a ladder stocking books on the top shelves. He selected a volume of T. S. Eliot and a new novel by Graham Greene called The Ministry of Fear. While he was paying, the girl professed love for Eliot and invited Neumann for coffee when she took her break at four o'clock. He declined but said he was frequently in the area and would come back. The girl smiled, placed the books in a brown paper bag, and said she would like that. Neumann walked out, accompanied by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the top of the door.

He arrived in Cavendish Square. The rain diminished to a chilly drizzle. It was too cold for him to wait on a bench in the square, so he walked around it several times, never taking his eye from the doorway on the southwest corner.

After twenty minutes of this, the fat man arrived.