Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

Where was he now? He smelled the river and made for it. Victoria Embankment. Tugs hauling barges up the river, running lights doused, the far-off call of a foghorn. He heard a man moaning with pleasure and thought it was only his imagination again. He looked to his left and, in the darkness, could make out a tart with her hands inside a soldier's fly. Oh, good Lord! Excuse me.

He was walking again. He had an urge to walk up to Boothby's office and punch him in the face. He remembered Boothby's physical size and the rumors about his prowess with the martial arts and decided it would be tantamount to a suicide attempt. He had an urge to walk back to Duke's, find Helen, take her home with him, and to hell with the consequences. Then the images of the case began bursting through his mind, just like they always did. Vogel's empty file. Karl Becker in his soggy cell- I told Boothby. Rose Morely's exploded face. Grace Clarendon's tearful flight from Boothby's lair. The Pelican. The Hawke, Boothby's Oxford boy spy. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was being run. He thought, Am I a Hawke too?

Where was he now? Northumberland Avenue. He walked more slowly, listening to the pleasant growl of the late-afternoon traffic. He looked up and saw an attractive young woman staring impatiently at the passing cars. It was Grace Clarendon, there was no mistaking her shock of white-blond hair and her bloodred lips. A large black Humber pulled to the curb. Boothby's. The door opened and Grace climbed inside. The car slid into the traffic. Vicary turned his head and looked away as the car swept past him.

Vicary rode to West Halkin Street. Night had fallen, and with it had come a drenching downpour like a springtime thunderstorm. Vicary rubbed a hole in the condensation on his window and looked out. Crowds of Londoners moved along the pavements like refugees fleeing an advancing army-huddled beneath raincoats and umbrellas, some turned inside out by the wind, blackout torches peering weakly into the wet gloom. Vicary thought of the strange twist of fate that had placed him in the back of a government car and not out there with the rest of them. He thought suddenly of Helen and wondered where she was-somewhere safe and dry, he hoped. He thought of Grace Clarendon, climbing into the back of Boothby's car, and wondered what the hell she was doing there. Was it a very simple answer? Was she sleeping with Boothby and Harry at the same time? Or was it something more sinister? He remembered the words shouted in anger at Boothby behind the closed doors of his office: You can't do this to me! Bastard! Bloody bastard! Vicary thought, Tell me what he made you do, Grace, because for the life of me I can't figure it out on my own.

The car stopped outside the house. Vicary climbed out and, holding his briefcase as a shield against the rain, hurried inside. It felt like a West End theater preparing for an uncertain opening night. He had come to enjoy the atmosphere of the place-the noisy chatter of the watchers as they dressed in their foul-weather gear for a night on the streets, the technician checking to make sure he was receiving a good signal from the microphones inside Jordan's house, the smell of cooking drifting from the kitchen.

Something about Vicary's appearance must have radiated tension, because no one spoke to him as he picked his way through the clutter of the situation room and climbed the stairs to the library. He removed his mackintosh and hung it on the hook behind the door. He placed his briefcase on the desk. Then he walked across the hall and found Peter Jordan standing in front of a mirror, dressing in his naval uniform.

He thought, If the watchers are my stagehands, Jordan is my star and the uniform his costume.

Vicary watched him carefully. He seemed uncomfortable pulling on the uniform-the way Vicary felt when he dug out his black tie once a decade and tried to remember what went where and how. Vicary cleared his throat gently to announce his presence. Jordan turned his head, stared at Vicary for an instant, then returned his attention to his own image in the glass.

Jordan said, "When is it going to end?"

It had become part of their evening ritual. Each night, before Vicary sent Jordan off to meet Catherine Blake with a new load of Kettledrum material in his briefcase, Jordan asked the same question. Vicary always deflected it. But now he said, "Actually, it may be over very soon."

Jordan looked up sharply, then looked at an empty chair and said, "Sit down. You look like hell. When's the last time you slept?"

"I believe it was a night in May 1940," Vicary said, and lowered himself into the chair.

"I don't suppose you can tell me why this is all about to end soon, can you?"

Vicary shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid I can't."

"I didn't think so."

"Does it make a difference to you?"

"Not really, I suppose."

Jordan finished dressing. He lit a cigarette and sat down opposite Vicary. "Am I allowed to ask you any questions?"

"That depends entirely on the question."

Jordan smiled pleasantly. "It's obvious to me you're not a career intelligence officer. What did you do before the war?"

"I was a professor of European history at University College London." It sounded odd to Vicary just saying it, as though he were reading from someone else's resume. It seemed like a lifetime ago-two lifetimes ago.

"How did you end up working for MI-Five?"

Vicary hesitated, decided he was violating no security edict by answering, and told him the story.

"Do you enjoy your work?"

"Sometimes. And then there are times when I detest it and can't wait to get back behind the walls of academia and bar the door."

"Like when?"

"Like now," Vicary said flatly.

Jordan had no reaction. It was as if he understood no intelligence officer, no matter how callused, could actually enjoy an operation like this.

"Married?"

"No."

"Ever been?"

"Never."

"Why not?"

Vicary thought that sometimes God's coincidences were too vulgar to contemplate. Three hours earlier he had answered the same question in front of the woman who knew the answer. And now his agent was asking him the same bloody thing. He smiled weakly and said, "I suppose I never found the right woman."

Jordan was studying him. Vicary felt it and didn't quite like it. He was used to the relationship being the other way around-with Jordan and with the German spies he had handled. It was Vicary who did the prying, Vicary who broke open the locked vaults of emotion and picked at old wounds until they bled, Vicary who probed for the weak spots and thrust in the dagger. He supposed it was one of the reasons he was a good Double Cross officer. The job allowed him to gaze into the lives of strangers and exploit their personal defects without having to face his own. He thought of Karl Becker sitting in his cell in his drab prison pajamas. Vicary realized he liked being the one in total control, the one doing the manipulating and the deceiving, the one pulling the strings. He thought, Am I this way because Helen tossed me away twenty-five years ago? He dug a packet of Players from his jacket and absently lit one.

Jordan propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin on his fist. He frowned and stared back at Vicary as if Vicary were an unstable bridge in danger of collapse.

"I think you probably found the right woman somewhere along the way and she didn't return the favor."

"I say-"

"Ah, so I'm right after all."

Vicary blew smoke at the ceiling. "You're an intelligent man. I always knew that."

"What was her name?"

"Her name was Helen."

"What happened?"

"Sorry, Peter."

"Ever see her now?"

Vicary, shaking his head, said, "No."

"Any regrets?"

Vicary thought of Helen's words. I didn't want you to tell me I'd ruined your life. Had she ruined his life? He liked to tell himself that she had not. Like most single men, he liked to tell himself how fortunate he was not to be burdened with a wife and a family. He had his privacy and his work and he liked not having to answer to anyone else in the world. He had enough money to do whatever he wanted. His house was decorated to his taste, and he didn't have to worry about anyone rummaging through his belongings or his papers. But in truth he was lonely-sometimes terribly lonely. In truth he wished he had someone to share his triumphs and his disappointments. He wished someone wanted to share theirs with him. When he stood back and looked at his life objectively, it was missing something: laughter, tenderness, a little noise and disorder sometimes. It was half a life, he realized. Half a life, half a home, ultimately half a man.