Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (26 page)
"None of your business."
"Ah, still working on that project of yours, are you?"
"Drop it, Shepherd, or I'll knock you on your ass right here in this bar."
"In your dreams, old sport. Besides, if you make a scene in here, where the hell will we do our drinking? No decent establishment would have your kind."
"Good point."
"So when are you going to tell me what you've been working on?"
"When the war is over."
"That important, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Well, at least one of us is doing something important." Shepherd Ramsey downed his drink. "William, two more, please."
"Are we going to get drunk before dinner tonight?"
"I just want you to loosen up, that's all."
"This is about as loose as I get. What are you up to, Shepherd? I know that tone of voice."
"Nothing, Peter. Jesus, take it easy."
"Tell me. You know how I hate surprises."
"I've invited a couple of people to join us tonight."
"People?"
"Girls, actually. In fact, they've just arrived."
Pope followed Jordan's gaze toward the front of the bar. There were two women, both young, both very attractive. The women spotted Shepherd Ramsey and Jordan and joined them at the bar.
"Peter, this is Barbara. But most people call her Baby."
"That's understandable. Pleasure to meet you, Barbara."
Barbara looked at Shepherd. "God, you were right! He's a doll." She spoke with a working-class London accent. "Are we eating in the Grill?"
"Yes. In fact, our table should be ready."
The maitre d'hotel showed them to their table. There was no way Pope could listen to their conversation from the bar. He needed to be seated at the next table. Gazing through the entrance of the dining room, Pope could see the table beside them was empty but had a small reserved sign on it. No problem, he thought. He quickly crossed the bar and went out into the street. Dicky was waiting in the front of the van. Pope waved for him to come inside. Dicky climbed out and crossed the street.
"What is it, Robert?"
"We're having dinner. I need you to make the reservation." Pope sent Dicky to speak to the maitre d'hotel. The first time Dicky asked for the table, the man shook his head, frowned, and waved his hands to show there were no tables to be had. Then Dicky leaned down and whispered something into his ear that made him turn white and start to tremble. A moment later they were being seated at the table next to Peter Jordan and Shepherd Ramsey.
"What did you say to him, Dicky?"
"I told him if he didn't give us this table I'd rip out his Adam's apple and drop it into that flaming pan over there."
"Well, the customer is always right. That's what I say."
They opened their menus. Pope said, "Are you going to start with the smoked salmon or the pate de foie gras?"
"Both, I think. I'm starving. You don't suppose they serve bangers and mash here, do you, Robert?"
"Not bloody likely. Try the coq au vin. Now keep quiet so I can hear what these Yanks are saying."
It was Dicky who followed them outside after dinner. He watched as they placed the two women into a taxi and set out along the Strand.
"You might at least have been civil."
"I'm sorry, Shepherd. We didn't have much to talk about."
"What's there to talk about? You have a few drinks, a few laughs, you take her home and have a wonderful evening in bed. No questions asked."
"I had trouble getting past the fact that she kept using her knife to check her lipstick."
"Do you know what she could have done to you with those lips? And did you get a look at what she had beneath that dress? My God, Peter, that girl has one of the worst reputations in London."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Shepherd. I just wasn't interested."
"Well, when are you going to get interested?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Six months ago you promised me you were going to start dating."
Jordan lit a cigarette and angrily waved out the match. "I would like to meet an intelligent, interesting grown-up. I don't need you to go out and find me a girl. Listen, Shep, I'm sorry--"
"No, you're right. It's none of my business. It's just that my mother died when my father was forty. He never remarried. As a result he died a lonely, bitter old man. I don't want the same thing to happen to you."
"Thanks, Shepherd, it won't."
"You'll never find another woman like Margaret."
"Tell me something I don't know." Jordan flagged down a taxi and climbed in. "Can I give you a lift?"
"Actually, I have a previous engagement."
"Shepherd."
"She's meeting me back at my room in half an hour. I couldn't resist. Forgive me, but the flesh is weak."
"More than the flesh. Have a good time, Shep."
The taxi drove off. Dicky peeled away and looked for the van. Pope pulled over to the curb a few seconds later and Dicky climbed inside. They followed the taxi back into Kensington, saw Peter Jordan to his door, and stayed there a half hour, waiting for the night shift to arrive.
20
LONDON
It had been Alfred Vicary's inability to repair a motorbike that led to his shattered knee. It happened on a glorious autumn day in the north of France, and without a doubt it was the worst day of his life.
Vicary had just finished a meeting with a spy who had gone behind enemy lines in a sector where the British planned to attack at dawn the next morning. The spy had discovered a large bivouac of German soldiers. The attack, if it went forward as planned, would be met with heavy resistance. The spy gave Vicary a handwritten note on the strength of the German troops and the number of artillery pieces he had spotted. He also gave Vicary a map showing exactly where they were camped. Vicary placed them in his leather saddlebag and set out back to headquarters.
Vicary knew he was carrying intelligence of vital importance; lives were at stake. He opened the throttle full and drove perilously fast along the narrow track. Large trees lined both sides of the path, a canopy of limbs overhead, the sunlight on the autumn leaves creating a flickering tunnel of fire. The path rose and fell rhythmically beneath him. Several times he felt the exhilarating thrill of his Rudge motorbike soaring airborne for a second or two.
The engine rattle began ten miles from headquarters. Vicary eased off the throttle. Over the next mile the rattle progressed to a loud clatter. A mile later he heard the sound of snapping metal, followed by a loud bang. The engine suddenly lost power and died.
With the roar of the bike gone, the silence was oppressive. He bent down and looked at the motor. The hot greasy metal and twisting cables meant nothing to him. He remembered actually kicking the thing and debating whether he should leave it by the roadside or drag it back to headquarters. He took hold of it by the handlebars and began pushing at a brisk pace.
The afternoon light diminished to a frail pink dusk. He was still miles from headquarters. If he were lucky, Vicary might run into someone from his own side who could give him a lift. If he were unlucky he might find himself face-to-face with a patrol of German scouts.
When the last of the twilight had died away, the shelling began. The first shells fell short, landing harmlessly in a field. The next shells soared overhead and thudded against a hillside. The third volley landed on the track directly in front of him.
Vicary never heard the shell that wounded him.
He regained consciousness sometime in the early evening as he lay freezing in a ditch. He looked down and nearly fainted at the sight of his knee, a mess of splintered bone and blood. He forced himself to crawl out of the ditch back up to the path. He found his bike and blacked out beside it.
Vicary came to in a field hospital the next morning. He knew the attack had gone forward because the hospital was overflowing. He lay in his bed all day, head swimming in a drowsy morphine haze, listening to the moaning of the wounded. At twilight the boy in the next bed died. Vicary closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sound of the death rattle, but it was no good.
Brendan Evans--his friend from Cambridge who had helped Vicary deceive his way into the Intelligence Corps--came to see him the next morning. The war had changed him. His boyish good looks were gone. He looked like a hardened, somewhat cruel man. Brendan pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed.
"It's all my fault," Vicary told him. "I knew the Germans were waiting. But my motorbike broke down and I couldn't fix the damned thing. Then the shelling started."
"I know. They found the papers in your saddlebag. No one's blaming you. It was just bloody awful luck, that's all. You probably couldn't have done anything to repair the bike in any case."
Sometimes, Vicary still heard the screams of the dying in his sleep--even now, almost thirty years later. In recent days his dream had taken a new twist--he dreamed it was Basil Boothby who had sabotaged his motorbike.
Ever read Vogel's file?
No.
Liar. Perfect liar.
Vicary had tried to refrain from the inevitable comparisons between then and now, but it was unavoidable. He did not believe in fate, but someone or something had given him another chance--a chance to redeem himself for his failure on that autumn day in 1916.
Vicary thought the party in the pub across the street from MI5 headquarters would help him take his mind off the case. It had not. He had lingered at the fringes, thinking about France, gazing into his beer, watching while other officers flirted with the pretty typists. Nicholas Jago was giving a rather good account of himself at the piano.
He was jolted out of his trance when one of the Registry Queens began singing "I'll Be Seeing You." She was an attractive crimson-lipped blonde named Grace Clarendon. Vicary knew she and Harry had carried on a rather public affair early in the war. Vicary understood the attraction. Grace was bright, witty, and cleverer than the rest of the girls in Registry. But she was also married, and Vicary did not approve. He didn't tell Harry how he felt; it was none of his business. He thought, Besides, who am I to lecture on matters of the heart? He suspected it was Grace who had told Harry about Boothby and the Vogel file.
Harry walked in, bundled in his overcoat. He winked at Grace, then walked over to Vicary and said, "Let's head back to the office. We need to talk."
"Her name was Beatrice Pymm. She lived alone in a cottage outside Ipswich," Harry began, as they walked upstairs to Vicary's office. He had spent several hours in Ipswich that morning, delving into Beatrice Pymm's past. "No friends, no family. Her mother died in 1936. Left her the cottage and a fair amount of money. She didn't have a job. She had no boyfriends, no lovers, not even a cat. The only thing she did was paint."
"Paint?" Vicary asked.
"Yeah, paint. The people I spoke to said she painted almost every day. She left the cottage early in the morning, went into the surrounding countryside, and spent all day painting. A detective from the Ipswich police showed me a couple of her paintings: landscapes. Very nice, actually."
Vicary frowned. "I didn't know you had an eye for art, Harry."
"You think boys from Battersea can't appreciate the finer things? I'll have you know my sainted mother regularly dragged me to the National Gallery."
"I'm sorry, Harry. Please continue."
"Beatrice didn't own a car. She either rode her bicycle or walked or took the bus. She used to paint too long, especially in the summer when the light was good, and miss the last bus back. Her neighbors would spot her arriving home late at night on foot carrying her painting things. They say she spent the night in some god-awful places, just to catch the sunrise."
"What do they think happened to her?"
"The official version of the story--accidental drowning. Her belongings were found on the banks of the Orwell, including an empty bottle of wine. The police think she may have had a little too much to drink, lost her footing, slipped into the water, and drowned. No body was found. They investigated for some time but couldn't find any evidence to support any other theory. They declared her death an accidental drowning and closed the case."
"Sounds like a very plausible story."
"Sure, it could have happened that way. But I doubt it. Beatrice Pymm was very familiar with the area. Why on that particular day did she have a little too much to drink and fall into the river?"
"Theory number two?"
"Theory number two goes as follows: she was picked up by our spy after dark, stabbed in the heart, and her body loaded into a van. Her things were left on the river-bank in order to make it appear like an accidental drowning. In reality, the corpse was driven across the country, mutilated, and buried outside Whitchurch."
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