Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (17 page)
An enlarged version of the
Scientific American
article hung on the wall in a neat black frame. The photograph taken of him then looked like another man. He was thinner
now--some
said more
handsome--and
even though he still was not yet forty, flecks of gray had appeared at his temples.
Scientific American
article hung on the wall in a neat black frame. The photograph taken of him then looked like another man. He was thinner
now--some
said more
handsome--and
even though he still was not yet forty, flecks of gray had appeared at his temples.
Broome, the narrow Englishman, was wandering the office, scrutinizing the photographs and the models of bridges the company had designed and built.
"You have many Germans working here," Broome observed, as if it would be a news bulletin to Jordan. It was
true--Germans
among the engineering staff and Germans on the secretarial staff. Jordan's own secretary was a woman named Miss Hofer whose family came to America from Stuttgart when she was a girl. She still spoke English with a German accent. Then, as if to prove Broome's point, two mail boys walked past Jordan's door prattling in Berlin-accented German.
true--Germans
among the engineering staff and Germans on the secretarial staff. Jordan's own secretary was a woman named Miss Hofer whose family came to America from Stuttgart when she was a girl. She still spoke English with a German accent. Then, as if to prove Broome's point, two mail boys walked past Jordan's door prattling in Berlin-accented German.
"What kind of security checks have you run on them?" It was Leamann talking again. Jordan could tell he was a cop of some
sort--or
at least he had been a cop in another life. It was written in the poor fit of his threadbare suit and the look of dogged determination on his face. For Leamann the world was filled with evil people, and he was the only thing standing between order and anarchy.
sort--or
at least he had been a cop in another life. It was written in the poor fit of his threadbare suit and the look of dogged determination on his face. For Leamann the world was filled with evil people, and he was the only thing standing between order and anarchy.
"We don't run security checks on them. We build bridges here, not bombs."
"How do you know they're not sympathetic to the other side?"
"Leamann. Is that a German name?"
Leamann's meaty face collapsed into a frown. "Irish, actually."
Broome broke off his inspection of the bridge models to chuckle at the exchange.
Then he said, "Do you know a man named Walker Hardegen?"
Jordan had the uncomfortable feeling he had been investigated. "I think you already know the answer to that question. And yes, his family is German. He speaks the language and he knows the country. He's been invaluable to my father-in-law."
"You mean your former father-in-law?" Broome asked.
"We've remained very close since Margaret's death."
Broome was stooped over another model. "Is this a suspension bridge?"
"No, it's a cantilever design. You're not an engineer?"
Broome looked up and smiled as if he found the question somewhat offensive. "No, of course not."
Jordan sat down behind his desk. "All right, gentlemen, suppose you tell me what this is all about."
"It has to do with the invasion of Europe," Broome said. "We may need your help."
Jordan smiled. "You want me to build a bridge between England and France?"
"Something like that," Leamann said.
Broome was lighting a cigarette. He blew an elegant stream of smoke toward the river.
"Actually, Mr. Jordan, it's nothing like that at all."
12
LONDON
The skies erupted into a downpour as Alfred Vicary hurried across Parliament Square toward the Underground War Rooms, Winston Churchill's subterranean headquarters beneath the pavements of Westminster. The prime minister had personally telephoned Vicary and asked to see him straightaway. Vicary had quickly changed into his uniform and, in his haste, fled MI5 headquarters without an umbrella. Now, his only defense against the onslaught of freezing rain was to quicken his pace, one hand clutching the throat of his mackintosh, the other holding a batch of files over his head like a shield. He rushed past the contemplative statues of Lincoln and Beaconsfield and then, thoroughly wet, presented himself to the Royal Marine guard at the sandbagged doorway of No. 2 Great George Street.
MI5 was in a panic. The previous evening, a pair of decoded Abwehr signals had arrived by motorcycle courier from Bletchley Park. They confirmed Vicary's worst suspicions--at least two agents were operating inside Britain without MI5's knowledge, and it appeared the Germans planned to send in another. It was a disaster. Vicary, after reading the messages with a sinking heart, had telephoned Sir Basil at home and broken the news. Sir Basil had contacted the director-general and other senior officers involved in Double Cross. By midnight the lights were burning on the fifth floor. Vicary was now heading one of the most important cases of the war. He had slept less than an hour. His head ached, his eyes burned, his thoughts were coming and going in chaotic, turbulent flashes.
The guard glanced at Vicary's identification and waved him inside. Vicary descended the stairs and crossed the small lobby. Ironically, Neville Chamberlain had ordered construction to begin on the Underground War Rooms the day he returned from Munich declaring "peace in our time." Vicary would always think of the place as a subterranean monument to the failure of appeasement. Shielded by four feet of concrete reinforced with old London tram rails, the underground labyrinth was regarded as absolutely bombproof. Along with Churchill's personal command post, the most vital and secret arms of the British government were housed here.
Vicary moved down the corridor, ears filled with the clatter of typewriters and the rattle of a dozen unanswered telephones. The low ceiling was buttressed by the timbers of one of Nelson's ships of the line. A sign warned MIND YOUR HEAD. Vicary, barely five and a half feet tall, passed easily beneath it. The walls, once the color of Devonshire cream, had faded like old newspaper to a dull beige. The floors were covered in an ugly brown linoleum. Overhead, in a brace of drainage pipes, Vicary could hear the gurgle of sewage from the aboveground New Public Offices. Even though the air was filtered by a special ventilation system, it smelled of unwashed bodies and stale cigarette smoke. Vicary approached a doorway, where another Royal Marine guard stood at ease. The guard snapped to attention as Vicary passed, the crack of his heels deadened by a special rubber mat.
Vicary looked at the faces of the staff who worked, lived, ate, and slept belowground in the prime minister's subterranean fortress. The word
pale
did not do justice to the state of their complexions; they were pasty, waxen troglodytes, scampering about their underground warren. Suddenly, Vicary's windowless hutch in St. James's Street didn't seem so bad after all. At least it was above the ground. At least there was something approaching fresh air.
pale
did not do justice to the state of their complexions; they were pasty, waxen troglodytes, scampering about their underground warren. Suddenly, Vicary's windowless hutch in St. James's Street didn't seem so bad after all. At least it was above the ground. At least there was something approaching fresh air.
Churchill's private quarters were located in room 65A, next door to the map room and across the hall from the Transatlantic Telephone Room. An aide took Vicary immediately inside, earning him the icy stares of a band of bureaucrats who looked as though they had been waiting since the last war. It was a tiny space, much of it consumed by a small bed made up with gray army blankets. At the foot of the bed stood a table with a bottle and two glasses. The BBC had installed a permanent microphone so Churchill could make his radio broadcasts from the safety of his underground fortress. Vicary noticed a small, darkened sign that said QUIET--ON THE AIR. The room contained only one luxury item, a humidor for the prime minister's Romeo y Julieta cigars.
Churchill, cloaked in a green silk robe, the first cigar of the day between his fingers, sat at his small desk. He remained there as Vicary entered the room. Vicary sat on the edge of the bed and regarded the figure before him. He was not the same man Vicary had seen that afternoon in May 1940. Nor was he the jaunty, confident figure of newsreels and propaganda films. He was obviously a man who had worked too much and slept too little. He had just returned to Britain a few days earlier from North Africa, where he convalesced after suffering a mild heart attack and contracting pneumonia. His eyes were rimmed with red, his cheeks puffy and pale. He managed a weak smile for his old friend.
"Hello, Alfred, how have you been?" Churchill said, when the Royal Marine orderly closed the door.
"Fine, but I should be asking that of you. You're the one who's been through the mill."
"Never better," Churchill said. "Bring me up to date."
"We've intercepted two messages from Hamburg to German agents operating inside Britain." Vicary handed them across to Churchill. "As you know, we were acting on the assumption that we had arrested, hanged, or turned every German agent operating in Britain. This is obviously a major blow. If the agents transmit any information that contradicts material we've sent through Double Cross, they will suspect everything. We also believe they are planning to insert a new agent into the country."
"What are you doing to stop them?"
Vicary briefed Churchill on the steps they had taken thus far. "But unfortunately, Prime Minister, the chances of capturing the agent at the drop are not good. In the past--in the summer of 1940, for example, when they were sending in spies for the invasion--we were able to capture incoming spies because the Germans often told old agents operating in Britain precisely when, where, and how the new spies were coming."
"And those old agents were working for you as doubles."
"Or sitting in a prison cell, yes. But in this case, the message to the existing agent was very vague, a code phrase only: EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE. We assume it tells the agent everything he needs to know. Unfortunately, it tells us nothing. We can only guess how the new spy is planning to get into the country. And unless we're very lucky, the chances of capturing him are slim at best."
"Damn!" Churchill swore, bringing his hand down on the arm of the chair. He rose and poured brandy for them both. He stared into his glass, mumbling to himself, as if he had forgotten Vicary was there.
"Do you remember the afternoon in 1940 when I asked you to come to work for the MI-Five?"
"Of course, Prime Minister."
"I was right, wasn't I?"
"How do you mean?"
"You've had the time of your life, haven't you? Look at you, Alfred, you're a completely different man. Good heavens, but I wish I looked as good as you."
"Thank you, Prime Minister."
"You've done marvelous work. But it will all mean nothing if these German spies find what they're looking for. Do you understand?"
Vicary exhaled heavily. "I understand the stakes involved, Prime Minister."
"I want them stopped, Alfred. I want them crushed."
Vicary blinked rapidly and, unconsciously, beat his breast pockets for his half-moon reading glasses. Churchill's cigar had gone dead in his hand. Relighting it, he indulged himself in a quiet moment of smoking.
"How's Boothby?" Churchill said finally.
Vicary sighed. "As ever, Prime Minister."
"Supportive?"
"He wants to be kept abreast of every move I make."
"In writing, I suppose. Boothby's a stickler for having things in writing. Man's office generates more bloody paper than the
Times.
"
Times.
"
Vicary permitted himself a mild chuckle.
"I never told you this, Alfred, but I had my doubts about whether you could be successful. Whether you truly had what it took to operate in the world of military intelligence. Oh, I never doubted you had the brains, the intelligence. But I doubted whether you possessed the sort of low cunning necessary to be a good intelligence officer. I also doubted whether you could be ruthless enough."
Churchill's words stunned Vicary.
"Now why are you looking at me like that? You're one of the most decent men I've ever met. The men who usually succeed in your line of work are men like Boothby. He'd arrest his own mother if he thought it would further his career or stab the enemy in the back."
"But I have changed, Prime Minister. I've done things I've never thought I was capable of doing. I've also done things I'm ashamed of."
Churchill looked perplexed. "Ashamed?"
" 'When one is employed to sweep chimneys one must black one's fingers,' " Vicary said. "Sir James Harris wrote those words while he was serving as minister to The Hague in 1785. He detested the fact that he was asked to pay bribes to spies and informers. Sometimes, I wish it were still that simple."
Vicary remembered a night in September 1940. He and his team had hidden in the heather on a clifftop overlooking a rocky Cornish beach, sheltered from the cold rain beneath a black oilskin tarp. Vicary knew the German would come that night; the Abwehr had asked Karl Becker to arrange a reception party for him. He was little more than a boy, Vicary remembered, and by the time he reached the shore in his inflatable raft he was half dead with cold. He fell into the arms of the Special Branch men, babbling in German, just happy to be alive. His papers were atrocious, his two hundred pounds of currency badly forged, his English limited to a few well-rehearsed pleasantries. It was so bad Vicary had to conduct the interrogation in German. The spy had been assigned to gather intelligence on coastal defenses and, when the invasion came, engage in sabotage. Vicary determined that he was useless. He wondered how many more Canaris had like him--poorly trained, poorly equipped and financed, with virtually no chance of succeeding. Maintaining MI5's elaborate deception required that they execute a few spies, so Vicary recommended hanging him. He attended the execution at Wandsworth Prison and would never forget the look in the spy's eyes as the hangman slipped the hood over his head.
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