Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

"They've also decreed that we should not shoot carrier pigeons. Would you please explain to me how I'm supposed to tell a carrier pigeon from a real one?"

"I can't tell you how often I'm tempted to shoot pigeons," Vicary said.

"By the way, I took the liberty of ordering you some mint sauce as well," Miss Walford said. "I know how eating lamb chops without mint sauce can destroy your week."

"Thank you, Miss Walford."

"Your publisher rang to say the proofs of the new book are ready for you to examine."

"And only four weeks late. A record for Cagley. Remind me to find a new publisher, Miss Walford."

"Yes, Professor Vicary. Miss Simpson telephoned to say she'll be unable to have dinner with you tonight. Her mother has taken ill. She asked me to tell you it's nothing serious."

"Damn," Vicary muttered. He had been looking forward to the date with Alice Simpson. It was the most serious he had been about a woman in a very long time.

"Is that all?"

"No-the prime minister telephoned."

"What! Why on earth didn't you tell me?"

"You left strict instructions not to be disturbed. When I told this to Mr. Churchill he was quite understanding. He says nothing upsets him more than being interrupted when he's writing."

Vicary frowned. "From now on, Miss Walford, you have my explicit permission to interrupt me when Mr. Churchill telephones."

"Yes, Professor Vicary," she replied, undeterred in her belief that she had acted properly.

"What did the prime minister say?"

"You're expected for lunch tomorrow at Chartwell."

Vicary varied his walks home according to his mood. Sometimes he preferred to jostle along a busy shopping street or through the buzzing crowds of Soho. Other nights he left the main thoroughfares and roamed the quiet residential streets, now pausing to gaze at a splendidly lit example of Georgian architecture, now slowing to listen to the sounds of music, laughter, and clinking glass drifting from a happy cocktail party.

Tonight he floated along a quiet street through the dying twilight.

Before the war he had spent most nights doing research at the library, wandering the stacks like a ghost late into the evening. Some nights he fell asleep. Miss Walford issued instructions to the night janitors: When they found him he was to be awakened, tucked into his mackintosh, and sent home for the night.

The blackout had changed that. Each night the city plunged into pitch darkness. Native Londoners lost their way along streets they had walked for years. For Vicary, who suffered from night blindness, the blackout made navigation next to impossible. He imagined this is what it must have been like two millennia ago, when London was a clump of log huts along the swampy banks of the River Thames. Time had dissolved, the centuries retreated, man's undeniable progress brought to a halt by the threat of Goring's bombers. Each afternoon Vicary fled the college and rushed home before becoming stranded on the darkened side streets of Chelsea. Once safely inside his home he drank his statutory two glasses of burgundy and consumed the plate of chop and peas his maid left for him in a warm oven. Had they not prepared his meals he might have starved, for he still was grappling with the complexities of the modern English kitchen.

After dinner, some music, a play on the wireless, even a detective novel, a private obsession he shared with no one. Vicary liked mysteries; he liked riddles. He liked to use his powers of reasoning and deduction to solve the cases long before the author did it for him. He also liked the character studies in mysteries and often found parallels to his own work-why good people sometimes did wicked things.

Sleep was a progressive affair. It began in his favorite chair, reading lamp still burning. Then he would move to the couch. Then, usually in the hours just before dawn, he would march upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes the concentration required to remove his clothes would leave him too alert to fall back to sleep, so he would lie awake and think and wait for the gray dawn and the snicker of the old magpie that splashed about each morning in the birdbath outside in the garden.

He doubted he would sleep much tonight-not after the summons from Churchill.

It was not unusual for Churchill to ring him at the office, it was just the timing. Vicary and Churchill had been friends since the autumn of 1935, when Vicary attended a lecture delivered by Churchill in London. Churchill, confined to the wilderness of the backbench, was one of the few voices in Britain warning of the threat posed by the Nazis. That night he claimed Germany was rearming herself at a feverish pace, that Hitler intended to fight as soon as he was capable. England must rearm at once, he argued, or face enslavement by the Nazis. The audience thought Churchill had lost his mind and heckled him mercilessly. Churchill had cut short his remarks and returned to Chartwell, mortified.

Vicary stood at the back of the lecture hall that night, watching the spectacle. He too had been observing Germany carefully since Hitler's rise to power. He had quietly predicted to his colleagues that England and Germany would soon be at war, perhaps before the end of the decade. No one listened. Many people thought Hitler was a fine counterbalance to the Soviet Union and should be supported. Vicary thought that utter nonsense. Like the rest of the country he considered Churchill a bit of an adventurer, a bit too bellicose. But when it came to the Nazis, Vicary believed Churchill was dead on target.

Returning home, Vicary sat at his desk and jotted him a one-sentence note: I attended your lecture in London and agree with every word you uttered. Five days later a note from Churchill arrived at Vicary's home: My God, I am not alone after all. The great Vicary is at my side! Please do me the honor of coming to Chartwell for lunch this Sunday.

Their first meeting was a success. Vicary was immediately absorbed into the ring of academics, journalists, civil servants, and military officers who would give Churchill advice and intelligence on Germany for the rest of the decade. Winston forced Vicary to listen while he paced the ancient wooden floor of his library and explained his theories about German intentions. Sometimes Vicary disagreed, forcing Churchill to clarify his positions. Sometimes Churchill lost his temper and refused to back down. Vicary would hold his ground. Their friendship was cemented in this manner.

Now, walking through the gathering dusk, Vicary thought of Churchill's summons to Chartwell. It certainly wasn't just to have a friendly chat.

Vicary turned onto a street lined with white Georgian terraces, painted rose by the last minutes of the spring twilight. He walked slowly, as if lost, one hand clutching his leaden briefcase, the other rammed into his mackintosh pocket. An attractive woman, roughly his age, emerged from a doorway. A handsome man with a bored face followed her. Even from a distance-even with his dreadful eyesight-he could see it was Helen. He would recognize her anywhere: the erect carriage, the long neck, the disdainful walk, as if she were always about to step into something disagreeable. Vicary watched them climb into the back of the chauffeur-driven car. It drew away from the curb and headed in his direction. Turn away, you damned fool! Don't look at her! But he was incapable of heeding his own advice. As the car passed he turned his head and looked into the rear seat. She saw him-just for an instant-but it was long enough. Embarrassed, she looked quickly down. Vicary, through the rear window of the car, watched her turn and murmur something to her husband that made his head snap back with laughter.

Idiot! Bloody damned idiot!

Vicary started walking again. He looked up and watched the car vanish around a corner. He wondered where they were headed-off to another party, the theater maybe. Why can't I just let her go? It's been twenty-five years, for God's sake! And then he thought, And why is your heart beating like it was the first time you saw her face?