Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

"Peter," she said softly. His back was to her. She reached up and took hold of his shoulder to pull him down, but his body had gone rigid.

"I always wondered where I was the exact moment she died, what I was doing. I know it sounds morbid, but I was obsessed with it for the longest time. It was because I wasn't there for her. It was because my wife died alone in a rainstorm on a Long Island highway. I always wondered if there wasn't something I could have done. And standing there tonight I saw the whole thing happening all over again. But this time I could do something-something to stop it. So I did."

"Thank you very much for saving my life, Peter Jordan."

"Believe me, the reasons were purely selfish. I waited a very long time to find you, Catherine Blake, and I don't ever want to be without you again."

"Do you mean that?"

"I mean it with all my heart."

She reached for him again, and this time he came to her. She kissed him again and again and said, "God, I love you so much, Peter." She was surprised by how easily the lie came to her lips. He suddenly wanted her very badly. She lay down on her back and opened her legs to him, and when he entered her Catherine felt her body rising toward his. She arched her back to him and felt him deep inside her. It happened so suddenly it made her gasp. When it was over she found she was laughing helplessly.

He laid his head on her breasts. "What's so damned funny?"

"You just make me very happy, Peter-so very happy."

Alfred Vicary maintained a restless vigil at St. James's Street. At nine o'clock he took the stairs to the canteen for something to eat. The fare was atrocious as usual, potato soup and some steamed whitefish that tasted as though it came from the river. But he discovered he was ravenously hungry and actually had a second helping. Another officer-a former barrister who looked chronically hungover-asked Vicary for a game of chess. Vicary played poorly and without enthusiasm but managed to pull out the game with a series of rather brilliant moves at the end. He hoped it was an allegory for the way the case would turn out.

Grace Clarendon passed him in the stairwell. She was clutching a batch of files in her arms like a schoolgirl carrying books. She shot Vicary a malevolent glance and clattered downward toward the dungeon of Registry.

Back in his office he tried to work-the Becker network was demanding attention-but it was no good.

Why haven't you told us this before?

I told Boothby.

Harry checked in for the first time-nothing.

He needed an hour of sleep. The clatter of the teleprinters next door, once so pacifying, sounded like jack-hammers. His tiny camp bed, once his deliverance from insomnia, became a symbol of all that was wrong with his life. For thirty minutes he moved it around his office, placing it first against one wall, then another, then in the center of the room. Mrs. Blanchard, the supervisor of the night typists, poked her head in Vicary's door, alarmed by the racket. She poured Vicary an enormous glass of whisky, ordered him to drink it, and returned the cot to its usual place.

Harry called again-nothing.

He picked up the telephone and dialed Helen's number. An annoyed man answered. Hello… Hello… Dammit, who's there? Vicary quietly replaced the receiver.

Harry checked in for the third time-still nothing.

Vicary, dejected, drafted a letter of resignation.

Ever read Vogel's file?

No.

He tore the letter to shreds and placed the shreds in his burn bag. He lay on his bed, the desk lamp shining on his face, and stared at the ceiling.

He wondered why she had become involved with the Popes. Were they operating in complicity with her, involved in espionage as well as black marketeering and protection rackets? Unlikely, he thought. Perhaps she went to them because of services they could provide: black market petrol, weapons, men to mount a surveillance operation. Vicary could never be certain until he apprehended and questioned Robert Pope. Even then he planned to put the Pope operation under a microscope. If he saw anything he didn't like he would charge the lot of them with spying for Germany and throw them in prison for a very long time. And what about Rose Morely? Was it possible the whole thing was a dreadful coincidence? That Rose had recognized Anna Steiner and had paid for that with her life? Very possible, Vicary thought. But he would assume the worst-case scenario-that Rose Morely actually was an agent too. He would conduct a thorough investigation of her background before closing the book on her murder.

He looked at his wristwatch: one o'clock in the morning. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number once more. This time it was Helen's voice on the other end of the line. It was the first time he had heard it in twenty-five years. Hello… Hello… Who is this, please? Vicary wanted to speak but could not. Oh, bloody hell! And the connection was broken.

Catherine unlocked the study door, went inside, and closed it softly behind her. She switched on the desk lamp. From her handbag she removed her camera and her Mauser pistol. She laid the pistol on the desk carefully, the butt facing her, so she could swing it up rapidly into the firing position if necessary. She knelt in front of the safe and rotated the dial back and forth. She turned the latch and the door was open. Inside was the briefcase-locked. She unlocked it with her own key, opened it, and looked inside.

A black bound book with the words TOP SECRET-BIGOT ONLY on the cover.

She felt her heart begin to beat faster.

Catherine took the book to the desk, laid it down, and photographed the cover.

She opened it and read the first page:

PHOENIX PROJECT

1. design specifications

2. construction schedule

3. deployment

Catherine thought, My God. I've actually done it!

She photographed that page and turned another.

Page after page of designs-she photographed all of them.

A page labeled CREW REQUIREMENTS-she photographed it.

Another page labeled TOWING REQUIREMENTS-she photographed it.

She ran out of film. She removed the spent film and reloaded the camera. She photographed two more pages.

Then she heard the noise upstairs-Jordan, getting out of bed.

She turned another page and photographed it.

Catherine heard him walking across the floor.

She turned another page and photographed it.

She heard water running in the bathroom.

She photographed two more pages. She would never have access to this document again, that she knew. If it truly contained the secret of the invasion, she had to keep working. While she photographed, she thought what she would do if he walked in on her. Kill him with the Mauser. No one would hear it because of the silencer. She could finish photographing the documents, leave, go to Hampton Sands, find Neumann, and signal the submarine. Keep working… And what would happen when SHAEF counterintelligence found the body of an officer who knew the secret of the invasion? They would launch an immediate investigation. They would discover he had been seen with a woman. They would look for the woman and, unable to locate her, conclude she was an agent. They would conclude the documents in his safe had been photographed, that the secret of the invasion had been compromised. She thought, Don't come in here, Peter Jordan. For your sake and mine.

She heard the sound of the toilet flushing.

Just a few more pages. She photographed them quickly. Done! She closed the binder, returned it to the briefcase, and placed the briefcase back in the safe. She closed the door quietly and spun the lock. She picked up the Mauser, pulled the slide into the firing position, and turned out the light. She opened the door and crept out into the hall. Jordan was still upstairs.