Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

Neumann returned to his spot on the square and waited. The diplomat came out a few minutes later, found a taxi, and was gone. Neumann waited for a few minutes to make certain the taxi was not being followed.

Neumann had two hours before his train. He stood up and started walking toward Portman Square. He passed by the bookshop and saw the girl through the window. The shop was empty. She was sitting behind the counter reading the same volume of Eliot she had sold him last week. She seemed to sense someone was watching her, because she looked up suddenly as if startled. Then she recognized him, smiled, and gestured for him to come inside. Neumann opened the door and walked in. "It's time for my break now," she said. "There's a cafe across the street. Will you join me? My name's Sarah, by the way."

Neumann thought, Oh, what the hell? He said, "I'd love to, Sarah."

Rain beat softly on the roof of the Humber. Cold infiltrated the interior, so they saw their breath when they spoke. Grosvenor Square was unusually quiet, indistinguishable in the blackout. They might have been parked outside the Reichstag for all Vicary could tell. An American staff car slipped into the square, headlamps shrouded. The street shone with the rain in the puddle of light thrown off by the vehicle. Two men climbed out; neither was Jordan. A moment later a motorcycle courier plunged through the darkness. Vicary reflexively thought of France.

He closed his eyes to squeeze away the images and instead saw the face of the man in the Kensington window. Probably nothing more than a nosy neighbor, he told himself. Something troubled him, though-the way the man stood a few feet back from the glass, the way the room was in darkness. He pictured the face: dark hair, dark eyes, a narrow mouth, pale skin, the features arranged in a way to obscure national origin. Maybe German, maybe Italian; maybe Greek or Russian. Or English.

Harry lit a cigarette, then Vicary lit a cigarette, and after a moment the back of the Humber was thick with smoke. Vicary wound down his window an inch to release the cloud. The cold poured in and sliced at his face.

Vicary said, "I never knew you were such a star, Harry. Every policeman in London knows your name."

"The Spencer Thomas case," Harry said.

"How did you catch him?"

"The dumb bastard wrote everything down."

"What do you mean?"

"He wanted to remember the details of the murders but he didn't trust his memory. So he kept this bizarre diary. I found it when I searched his room. You'd be surprised at the things some people put in writing."

No, I wouldn't, thought Vicary, remembering the letter from Helen. I have proven my love for you in a way that I can do for no other man. But I am unwilling to sacrifice my relationship with my father for the sake of a marriage.

"How's Grace Clarendon?" Vicary asked. He had never asked about her before and the question sounded unnatural, as though he had just asked Harry about rugby or cricket.

Harry said, "She's fine. Why do you ask?"

"I saw her outside Boothby's office last night."

"Boothby always asks for Grace to deliver files to his office personally. Grace thinks it's because he likes to look at her legs. Half the people in the department think she's having it off with him."

Vicary had heard those rumors once upon a time himself: Boothby had slept with everything in the department that wasn't nailed down, and Grace Clarendon had been one of his favorite conquests.

You can't do this to me! Bastard! Bloody bastard!

Vicary had assumed Boothby disciplined Grace over the Vogel file. But it was possible he had just overheard a lover's quarrel. He decided he would not tell Harry any more about it.

The car entered the square a moment later.

Vicary's first image of Jordan would linger with him for a long time, faintly irritating, like the odor of foul cooking trapped in clothes. He heard the low rumble of the approaching staff car and spun his head in time to see Jordan slip past his window. He saw him for less than a split second, but his mind had frozen Jordan's likeness as surely as film traps light. He saw the eyes, looking across the square, as if for hidden enemies. He saw the jawline, taut and crisp, as if steeled for a contest. He noted the cap, pulled tightly to the brow, and the overcoat, buttoned tightly to the throat.

Jordan's staff car stopped in front of Number 47. The engine started and they pulled forward very quickly. Harry got out of the car and pursued Jordan across the pavement.

The rest Vicary watched like a pantomime: Harry asking Jordan to come away and get in the second Humber, which seemed to have materialized from thin air; Jordan looking at Harry as though he were from outer space.

Harry identifying himself in the overpolite manner of a London police officer; Jordan telling him very clearly to fuck off. Harry seizing Jordan's arm, a little too firmly, and leaning over to murmur something into his ear.

All color bleeding from Jordan's face.

The redbrick Victorian mansion was not visible from the road. It stood atop the highest point of the grounds at the end of a ragged ribbon of gravel. Vicary, alone in the back of the freezing Humber, doused the light as he approached the house. During the drive he had read the contents of Jordan's briefcase. His eyes burned and his head was throbbing. If this document was in German hands, it was possible the Abwehr could use it to unlock the secret of the invasion. They could use it to peer through the smoke and the fog of Double Cross and Fortitude. They could use it to win the war! Vicary imagined the scene in Berlin. Hitler would be dancing on the tabletops, clicking the heels of his jackboots. And it's all because I couldn't find a way to catch that damned spy!

Vicary rubbed a clear patch in his fogged window. The mansion was dark except for a single yellow light burning over the entrance. MI5 had purchased it before the war from bankrupt relatives of the original owner. The plan had been to use it for clandestine meetings and interrogations and as lodgings for sensitive guests. Used infrequently, it had grown seedy and derelict and looked as though it had been abandoned by a retreating army. The only signs of habitation were the dozen staff cars parked haphazardly in the weedy drive.

A Royal Marine guard appeared out of the darkness and opened Vicary's door. He led him into the cold timeworn hall and through a series of rooms-a drawing room of covered furniture, a library of empty bookshelves-and finally through a pair of double doors that led into a large room overlooking the darkened grounds. It smelled of woodsmoke and brandy and faintly of wet dog. A billiards table had been pushed aside and a heavy oaken banquet table laid in its place. A bonfire burned in the huge fireplace. A pair of dark-eyed Americans from SHAEF Intelligence sat quietly as altar boys in the chairs nearest the flames. Basil Boothby paced slowly in the shadows.

Vicary found his spot at the table. He placed Jordan's briefcase on the floor next to his chair and began slowly unpacking his own. He looked up, caught Boothby's eye, and nodded. Then he looked down again and continued preparing his place. He heard doors opening and two pairs of footsteps crossing the wooden floor. He recognized one set as Harry's and knew the other to be Peter Jordan's.

A moment later Vicary heard Jordan's weight settling into the chair directly across the table from him. Still, he did not look at him. He removed his notebook and a single yellow pencil and laid them on the table carefully, as if arranging a place setting for royalty. Next he removed Jordan's file and laid it on the table. He sat down, opened the first page of his notebook, and licked the tip of his pencil.