Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

He wore a gray suit, gray overcoat, and bowler hat and carried himself as though he were about to rob a bank. He shoved his key in the door as though he were entering enemy territory and went inside. When the door closed Neumann crossed the square, removed the film from his jacket pocket, and dropped it through the mail slot. On the other side of the door he heard the fat man grunting as he stooped to pick it up. Neumann walked away and continued his tour of the square, again never taking his eyes from the house. The Portuguese diplomat emerged five minutes later, found a taxi after a moment, and was gone.

Neumann looked at his wristwatch. More than an hour before his train. He thought about going back to the bookshop for the girl. The idea of coffee and intelligent conversation appealed to him. But even innocent discourse was a potential minefield. Speaking the language and understanding the culture were two different things. He might make a stupid remark and she might become suspicious. It was not worth the risk.

He left Cavendish Square, books beneath his arm, and took the underground east to Liverpool Street, where he boarded the late-afternoon train for Hunstanton.

"It's called Operation Mulberry," Admiral Canaris began, "and as of now we don't have the slightest idea what it's all about."

A smile flickered across Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg's lips and evaporated as quickly as summer rain. When the two men had ridden together earlier that morning in the Tiergarten, Canaris had not told Schellenberg the news. Catching a glimpse of Schellenberg's reaction now, Canaris felt no guilt about keeping it from the young general. Their horseback meetings had one unspoken ground rule: each man was expected to use them for his own advantage. Canaris decided to share or withhold information based on a simple formula: did it help his cause? Outright lying was frowned upon. Lying led to reprisals, and reprisals spoiled the affable atmosphere of the rides.

"A few days ago, the Luftwaffe shot these surveillance photographs." Canaris laid two enlargements on the low, ornate coffee table around which they were seated. "This is Selsey Bill in the south of England. We are almost certain these work sites are connected to the project." Canaris used a silver pen as a pointer. "Obviously, something very large is being hastily constructed at these sites. There are huge stockpiles of cement and steel girding. In this photograph a scaffolding is visible."

"Impressive, Admiral Canaris," Hitler said. "What else do you know?"

"We know that several topflight British and American engineers are working on the project. We also know that General Eisenhower is intimately involved. Unfortunately, we are missing one very important piece of the puzzle-the purpose of the giant concrete structures." Canaris paused for a moment. "Find that missing piece, and we may very well solve the puzzle of the Allied invasion."

Hitler was visibly impressed with Canaris's briefing. "I have just one more question, Herr Admiral," Hitler said. "The source of your information-what is it?"

Canaris hesitated. Himmler's face twitched, then he said, "Surely, Admiral Canaris, you don't think anything said here this morning would go beyond this room."

"Of course not, Herr Reichsfuhrer. One of our agents in London is getting the information directly from a senior member of the Mulberry team. The source of the leak does not know he has been compromised. According to Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg's sources, British Intelligence knows about our operation but has been unable to stop it."

"This is true," Schellenberg said. "I have it from an excellent source that MI-Five is operating in crisis mode."

"Well, well. Isn't this refreshing, the SD and the Abwehr working together for a change instead of clawing at each other's throats. Perhaps this is a sign of good things to come." Hitler turned to Canaris. "Perhaps Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg can help you unlock the riddle of those concrete boxes."

Schellenberg smiled and said, "My thoughts precisely."

Catherine Blake tossed stale bread to the pigeons on Trafalgar Square. A stupid place for a rendezvous, she thought. But Vogel liked the image of his agents meeting so near the seat of British power. She had entered from the south, having crossed St. James's Park and walked along Pall Mall. Neumann was supposed to come from the north, from St. Martin's Place and Soho. Catherine, as usual, was a minute or two early. She wanted to see if he was being followed before deciding whether to proceed. The square shone with the morning's rain. A chill wind rose from the river and whistled through a pile of sandbags. A sign pointing to the nearest shelter swayed with the gusts, as though confused about the direction.

Catherine looked north, toward St. Martin's Place, as Neumann entered the square. She watched his approach. A thick crowd of pedestrians jostled along the pavement behind him. Some continued on St. Martin's Place; some broke away and, like Neumann, walked across the square. There was no way to know for certain whether he was being followed. She scattered the rest of the bread and got up. The birds startled, broke into flight, and turned like a squadron of Spitfires toward the river.

Catherine walked toward Neumann. She was especially anxious to deliver this film. Jordan had brought home a different notebook last night-one she had never seen before-and locked it in his safe. That morning, after he left for his office in Grosvenor Square, she returned to the house. When Jordan's cleaning lady left, Catherine slipped inside, using her keys, and photographed the entire book.

Neumann was a few feet away. Catherine had placed the rolls in a small envelope. She withdrew the envelope and prepared to slip it into Neumann's hand and keep walking. But Neumann stopped in front of her, took the envelope, and handed her a slip of paper.

"Message from our friend," he said, and melted into the crowd.

She read the message from Vogel while drinking weak coffee in a cafe in Leicester Square. She read it again to make certain she understood it. When she finished she folded the note and placed it in her handbag. She would burn it back at her flat. She left change on the table and went out.

Vogel began the message with a commendation for the work Catherine had done so far. But he said more specific information was required. He also wanted a written report on every step she had taken thus far: how she made her approach, how she gained entry to Jordan's private papers, everything he had said to her. Catherine thought she knew what that meant. She was delivering high-grade intelligence, and Vogel wanted to make certain the source was not compromised.

She walked north up Charing Cross Road. She paused now and again to gaze into shop windows and check to see if she was being followed. She turned onto Oxford Street and joined a bus queue. The bus came right away and she climbed on board and took a seat upstairs near the rear.

She had suspected the material Jordan brought home would not paint a complete picture of his work. It made sense. Based on the watch report given to her by the Popes, Jordan moved between a pair of offices during the day, one at the SHAEF headquarters on Grosvenor Square and another smaller office nearby. Whenever he carried material between the two offices it was hand-cuffed to his wrist.

Catherine needed to see that material.

But how?

She considered a second bump, a chance meeting on Grosvenor Square. She could entice him back to his house for an afternoon in bed together. It was fraught with risk. Jordan might become suspicious about another coincidental encounter. There was no guarantee he would go home with her. And even if he did it would be almost impossible to sneak out of bed in the middle of the afternoon and photograph the contents of the briefcase. Catherine remembered something Vogel said to her during her training: When desk officers grow careless, field agents die. She decided she would be patient and wait. If she continued to enjoy Peter Jordan's trust, eventually the secret of his work would appear in his briefcase. She would give Vogel his written report, but she would not change her tactics for now.