Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

He glances up to see Vic Boucher standing in the doorway with a grin on his face, how long has he been there?

Jack winks at Vic and says into the phone, “Yeah I’ll make sure they’re fresh….” Vic wanders in, a sheaf of papers under his arm, and idly glances at Jack’s grocery list upside down. Jack writes “celery” instead of the brand of pipe tobacco Fried has asked for, and wishes he had closed his door.

On the other end of the line, Fried says, “Caviar.”

Jack reacts in spite of himself. “Caviar?”

Vic looks to the ceiling and mimes a whistle. Jack grins and shakes his head in response.

“That is all,” says Fried, and hangs up.

Jack maintains his smile, and says into the phone, “Me too. Bye-bye sweetheart,” and hangs up.

“Gotta hand it to Mimi,” says Vic. “That girl’s got champagne taste.”

“Goes with my beer-bottle budget.”

Vic asks Jack’s opinion on the best case study to wrap up the semester, and Jack regrets his annoyance — this, after all, is his real job. Fried is the intrusion, not Vic. When Vic leaves, he takes the list from his pocket. Celery? He doesn’t recall Fried asking for — oh yes, celery was code for pipe tobacco, but what was the brand again?

He pockets the list, grabs his uniform jacket and leaves his office, going over the situation methodically in his mind so that he will be able to communicate it clearly and simply to Simon. He can think of a number of reasons not to be unduly alarmed. If the unknown man at the marketplace was KGB and the Soviets have had Fried under surveillance, why call out to him in public? And, having done so, how likely is it that a KGB agent would lose Fried so easily in the market crowd? As he trots down the steps, he takes a deep breath of April air and looks up past the treetops into the blue puffed with white that might still turn to snow. Likely it wasn’t KGB. Unless the grocery delivery is a trap. The poplars rustle the way they do, making the most of the slightest breeze. Jack’s face has become hot but he assesses the situation coolly. “Dora” could be anybody. Or anything. What does Jack know about this operation? Very little that’s concrete. Simon has told him that Fried is a Soviet scientist, and Jack has surmised that his specialty is rockets. He realizes that he has likewise assumed that Simon is MI6, but it dawns on him now that Simon has never been specific: subtly fostering those assumptions while neither confirming nor denying them. The only thing he has spelled out is the necessity of keeping Blair McCarroll in the dark.

Jack reaches the open asphalt of the parade square and sighs inwardly, digging in his pocket for dimes. This adventure comes too late. All he can think is, what will Mimi and the kids do if anything should happen to him?

“British Embassy, good morning,” the polite female voice with the Queen’s English.

“Good morning, may I have First Secretary Crawford please.”

“May I ask who is calling please, sir?”

“Major Newbolt.” Jack feels foolish using the code name, but it’s according to the procedure Simon laid down. “Newbolt” means urgent. This qualifies.

“How’s she going, Jack?”

“Si, we got a bit of a gremlin.”

“You at work?”

“I’m at the booth.”

They hang up and Jack waits for the phone to ring. It is mid-morning, the parade square is deserted — everyone is in classrooms, of either the concrete or the cockpit variety. He glances up through the glass of the booth and watches three Chipmunks bank in formation. McCarroll is probably up there right now, in the instructor’s seat of one of those little yellow kites. The phone rings, giving him a start. He picks it up. “Hi.”

“Fire away, mate.”

“Our friend has been recognized.”

“By whom?”

“A man at the marketplace, he doesn’t know who—”

“Did he call Fried by name?”

“According to Fried, whoever it was called out the name ‘Dora.’” Jack waits for a response, but continues when none is forthcoming. “That’s all I could get out of him. He wouldn’t tell me who ‘Dora’ is, he said you would know.”

“When was this?”

“Saturday.”

“Well,” says Simon, “whoever it was, it wasn’t a Soviet or we’d know by now so that’s one for us, although it is rather important our friend sit tight for the moment.”

“I told him that.”

“Good. Now we may have to accelerate the process somewhat.” Jack is reassured by Simon’s light, even tone, rapid but not rushed.

“You want me to brief my opposite number?”

“Mm.”

“When?”

“Oh, now’s as good a time as any.”

Jack can feel Simon about to end the conversation so he says, “I guess you’re not worried about this woman?”

Simon laughs. “Dora was a factory, mate.”

“A factory? Where, in Germany?”

“Yes.”

“During the war?”

“That’s right.”

“Never heard of it.” Jack wishes he could take that back, aware it sounded defensive, even suspicious.

“Well you wouldn’t have, it was a code name, as it happens. For their rocket factory.”

“The V-2? That was Peenemünde.”

“We bombed Peenemünde, so they took it underground and called it Dora.”

Jack is pleased. Assumption confirmed. Fried is a rocket scientist.

“By the way, who’s winning?” asks Simon.

“Who’s—?”

“Will Diefenbaker hang on?”

“Oh,” says Jack. “Naw, I think he’s had it. Least I hope so. Look, Fried wants me to bring him groceries, should I tell him to pack his bags instead?”

“Don’t tell him anything, I’ll have a word. I think I know what’s happened. Just bring what he wants as usual, no panic.”

“Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“How can you be so sure this fellow from Dora isn’t Soviet? The fact they haven’t moved on Fried might mean they’re biding their time. Watching him.”

There is the merest hesitation, then Simon says, “Because the Soviets don’t realize Fried has defected. They think he’s dead.”

“… Oh.”

“That’s how we got him out and closed the loop behind him. If the KGB were looking for him despite that, I’d’ve heard from our people in the East by now. There’d have been a bit of fallout. Canaries in the coal mine.”

“… So everything’s still basically in working order,” says Jack.

“Everything’s tickety-boo.”

And they hang up. Simon didn’t sound perturbed. But he never does.

Jack leaves the booth but doesn’t head back to his building; he walks in the opposite direction, toward the Primary Flying School — where he will find McCarroll.

So he was right, Fried worked on the V-2 rocket — the first ballistic missile, precursor to the Saturn rocket that is the West’s best hope of propelling the Apollo astronauts to the moon “before this decade is out.” He shivers — a surge of energy intensified by the raw spring air. Oskar Fried must have worked side by side with Wernher von Braun. This more than makes up for any minor annoyance Jack may have endured at Fried’s hands. He nears the massive hangars that border the airfield and heads for Number 4, which houses the PFS.

Dora. An underground factory. The Germans had several of them — twelve-storey palaces beneath the pines, turning out Messerschmitts till the bitter end. Feats within feats of engineering. Even greater feats of pure management — the genius of Albert Speer. Jack strides into the hangar; steel rafters arch high overhead causing him to feel suspended as he glances up. Underfoot is the smooth certainty of concrete. He follows a makeshift corridor between prefab classroom walls.

Has Fried been recognized by someone from Dora? A fellow scientist? Fried is paranoid, trained by the Soviet system to be constantly looking over his shoulder, but it’s entirely possible that the man who called out to him did so innocently, at the sight of a familiar face whose name had escaped memory with the passage of years. It might have been intended as a friendly greeting — knowing Fried, he likely couldn’t tell the difference.