Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

The concept was brilliant, but Vogel recognized one glaring weakness. It required total manipulation of the German networks in Britain. Every agent had to be accounted for-turned or locked away where they could do no harm. If there was a single agent outside MI5's web of control, that one agent could file a contradictory report and the Abwehr might smell a rat. It could use the reports from the one genuine agent to conclude that all the other intelligence it was receiving was bogus. And if all the other intelligence was pointing toward Calais as the invasion point, the Abwehr could conclude that in fact the opposite was true-the enemy was coming at Normandy.

He would have his answer soon. If Neumann discovered that Catherine Blake was under surveillance, Vogel could dismiss the information she was sending as smoke concocted by British Intelligence-part of a deception.

He turned from the window and lay on his army cot. A chill ran down him. He might very well uncover evidence that British Intelligence was engaged in a grand deception. And that in turn would strongly suggest that Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of German military intelligence, was a traitor. Himmler would certainly take it as ironclad proof. There was only one punishment for such an offense: piano wire around the neck, a slow torturous death by strangulation, all captured on film so Hitler could watch it over and over again.

And what if he did uncover proof of a deception? The Wehrmacht would be waiting with their panzers at the invasion point. The enemy would be slaughtered. Germany would win the war, and the Nazis would rule Germany and Europe for decades.

There is no law in Germany, Trude. There is only Hitler.

Vogel closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it was no good. The two incompatible aspects of his personality were in full conflict: Vogel the spymaster and manipulator and Vogel the believer in the rule of law. He was tantalized by the prospect of uncovering a massive British deception, of outwitting his British opponents, of destroying their little game. At the same time, he was terrified by what that victory would bring. Prove a British deception, destroy his old friend Canaris, win the war for Germany, secure the Nazis in power forever.

He lay on his cot awake, listening to the rumble of the bombers.

Tell me you don't work for him, Kurt.

Vogel thought, I do now, Trude. I do now.

"Hello, Alfred."

"Hello, Helen."

She smiled and kissed his cheek and said, "Oh, it's so good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too."

She threaded her arm through Vicary's and placed her hand inside his coat pocket, the way she used to do. They turned and walked silently along the footpath in St. James's Park. Vicary did not find the quiet awkward. In fact he found it rather pleasant. A hundred years ago it was one of the reasons why he knew he truly loved her-the way he felt when there was silence between them. He could enjoy her company when they talked and laughed, but he enjoyed her just as much when she said nothing at all. He loved sitting quietly with her on the veranda of her home or walking through the woods or lying by the lake. Just to have her body next to his-or her hand in his-was enough.

The afternoon air was thick and warm, a breath of August in February, the sky dark and unsettled. Wind moved in the trees, made waves on the surface of the pond. A fleet of ducks bobbed with the current as if lying at anchor.

He looked at her closely for the first time. She had aged well. In many ways she was more beautiful than before. She was tall and erect, and the little bit of weight she had put on over the years was hidden nicely behind her carefully tailored suit. Her hair, which she used to wear down the center of her back in a blond cape, was pulled back and pinned neatly in place. On her head she wore a gray pillbox hat.

Vicary allowed his gaze to settle on her face. Her nose, once a little too long for her face, now seemed perfectly appropriate. Her cheeks had hollowed a bit with age, making the bones of her face more prominent. She turned and noticed Vicary was staring at her. She smiled at him, but the smile did not extend to the eyes. There was a distant sadness there, as if someone close to her had died recently.

Vicary was the first to break the silence. He looked away from her and said, "I'm sorry about lunch, Helen. Something came up at work and I wasn't able to get away or even call you."

"Don't worry, Alfred. I just sat at a table alone at the Connaught and became miserably drunk." Vicary looked up sharply at her. "I'm only teasing you. But I won't pretend I wasn't disappointed. It took me a very long time to work up the courage to approach you. I acted so horribly before…" Her voice trailed off and she left her thought unfinished.

Vicary thought, Yes, you did, Helen. He said, "It was a long time ago. How on earth did you find me?"

She had telephoned him at the office twenty minutes ago. He had picked up the receiver expecting to hear anything but her voice: Boothby, telling him to come upstairs for another display of his brilliance; Harry, telling him Catherine Blake had shot someone else in the face; Peter Jordan, telling him to fuck off, he wouldn't see her anymore. The sound of Helen's voice nearly made him choke. "Hello, darling, it's me," she had said, and, like a good agent, she had not used her name. "Will you still see me? I'm in a phone box opposite your office. Oh, please, Alfred."

"My father is friends with your director-general," she said, "and David is good friends with Basil Boothby. I've known for some time that you'd been pulled in."

"Your father, David, and Basil Boothby-all my favorite people."

"Don't worry, Alfred. They don't sit around discussing you."

"Well, thank heavens for that!"

She squeezed his hand. "How in the world did you end up doing this? "

Vicary told her the story. How he befriended Churchill before the war. How he was drawn into Churchill's circle of advisers at Chartwell. How Churchill put the hooks into him that afternoon in May 1940.

"He actually did it in the bath?" Helen exclaimed.

Vicary nodded, smiling at the memory of it.

"What does the prime minister look like naked?"

"He's very pink. It was awe-inspiring. I found myself humming 'Rule Britannia' for the rest of the day."

Helen laughed. "Your work must be terribly exciting."

"It can be. But it can also be dreadfully boring and tedious."

"Are you ever tempted to tell anyone all the secrets you know?"

"Helen!"

"Are you?" she insisted.

"No, of course not."

"I am," she said, and looked away. After a moment she looked back at him. "You look wonderful, Alfred. You're very handsome. This bloody war seems to be agreeing with you."

"Thank you."

"I must admit I miss the corduroy and tweed, though. Now you're all gray, just like the rest of them."

"It's the official uniform of Whitehall, I'm afraid. I've become accustomed to it. I've also enjoyed the change. But I'll be glad when it's over so I can get back to University College where I belong."

He couldn't believe the words had actually come out of his mouth. He had once thought of MI5 as his salvation. He knew now it definitely was not. He had enjoyed his time at MI5: the tension, the long hours, the inedible fare in the canteen, the battles with Boothby, the remarkable group of dedicated amateurs just like himself who toiled away in secret. He had once toyed with the idea of asking to stay on after the war. But it wouldn't be the same-not without the threat of national destruction hanging over them like Damocles' sword.

There was something else. While he was well suited intellectually to the actual business of intelligence, its very nature was abhorrent to him. He was a historian. By nature and training he was dedicated to searching out truth. Intelligence was about lying and deception. About betrayal. About means justifying ends. About stabbing one's enemy in the back-and maybe stabbing a friend in the back, if necessary. He was not at all certain he liked the person he had become.