Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (27 page)
They arrived in Vicary's office and sat down, Vicary behind the desk, Harry opposite. Harry leaned back in his chair and propped up his feet.
"Is this all supposition, or do you have facts to support your theory?"
"Half and half, but it all fits your guess that Beatrice Pymm was murdered in order to conceal the spy's entry into the country."
"Let's hear it."
"I'll start with the corpse. The body was discovered in August 1939. I spoke to the Home Office pathologist who examined it. Judging from the decomposition, he estimated it had been in the ground six to nine months. That's consistent with Beatrice Pymm's disappearance, by the way. The bones of the face had been almost completely shattered. There were no teeth to compare dental records. There were no fingerprints to be taken because the hands had badly decomposed. He was unable to fix a cause of death. He did find one interesting clue, though, a nick on the bottom rib of the left side. That nick is consistent with being stabbed in the chest."
"You say the killer may have used a van? What's your evidence?"
"I asked the local police forces for reports on any crimes or disturbances around Whitchurch the night of Beatrice Pymm's murder. Coincidentally, a van was deserted and set deliberately ablaze outside a village called Alderton. They ran a check on the van's identification number."
"And?"
"Stolen in London two days earlier."
Vicary rose and began pacing. "So our spy is in the middle of nowhere with a van blazing on the side of the road. Where does she go now? What does she do?"
"Let's assume she comes back to London. She flags down a passing car or lorry and asks for a lift. Or maybe she walks to the nearest station and takes the first train into London."
"Too risky," Vicary said. "A woman alone in the middle of the countryside late at night would be very unusual. It's November, so it's cold too. She might be spotted by the police. The murder of Beatrice Pymm was perfectly planned and executed. Her killer wouldn't leave her escape to chance."
"How about a motorbike in the back of the van?"
"Good idea. Run a check. See if any motorbikes were stolen about that time."
"She rides back to London and ditches the bike."
"That's right," Vicary said. "And when war breaks out we don't look for a Dutch woman named Christa Kunst because we assume incorrectly that she's dead."
"Clever as hell."
"More ruthless than clever. Imagine, killing an innocent British civilian to better conceal a spy. This is no ordinary agent, and Kurt Vogel is no ordinary control officer. I'm convinced of that." Vicary paused to light a cigarette. "Has the photograph yielded any leads?"
"Nothing."
"I think that leaves our investigation dead in the water."
"I'm afraid you're right. I'll make a few more calls tonight."
Vicary shook his head. "Take the rest of the night off. Go down to the party." Then he added, "Spend some time with Grace."
Harry looked up. "How did you know?"
"This place is filled with intelligence officers, if you haven't noticed. Things get around, people talk. Besides, you two weren't exactly circumspect. You used to leave the number of Grace's flat with the night operators in case I was looking for you."
Harry's face reddened.
"Go to her, Harry. She misses you--any fool can see that."
"I miss her too. But she's married. I broke it off because I felt like a complete cad."
"You make her happy and she makes you happy. When her husband comes home,
if
her husband comes home, things will go back to normal."
if
her husband comes home, things will go back to normal."
"And where does that leave me?"
"That's up to you."
"It leaves me with a broken heart, that's where it leaves me. I'm crazy about Grace."
"Then be with her and enjoy her company."
"There's something else." Harry told him about the other aspect of his guilt over his affair with Grace--the fact that he was in London chasing spies while Grace's husband and other men were risking their lives in the military. "I just don't know what I would do under fire, how I would react. Whether I would be brave or whether I would be a coward. I also don't know whether I'm doing any damned good here. I could name a hundred other detectives who can do what I do. Sometimes I think about giving Boothby my resignation and joining up."
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. When you do your job right you save lives on the battlefield. The invasion of France is going to be won or lost before the first soldier ever sets foot on a French beach. Thousands of lives may depend on what you do. If you don't think you're doing your bit, think of it in those terms. Besides, I need you. You're the only one I can trust around here."
They sat in an awkward, embarrassed silence for a moment, the way Englishmen are apt to do after sharing private thoughts. Harry stood up, started for the door, then stopped and turned around. "What about you, Alfred? Why is there no one in your life? Why don't you come downstairs to the party and find a nice woman to spend some time with?"
Vicary beat his breast pockets for his half-moon reading glasses and thrust them onto his face. "Good night, Harry," he said, a little too firmly, as he leafed through a stack of papers on the desk in front of him. "Have fun at the party. I'll see you in the morning."
When Harry was gone Vicary picked up the telephone and dialed Boothby's number. He was surprised when Boothby answered his own telephone. When Vicary asked if he was free, Sir Basil wondered aloud whether it could wait until Monday morning. Vicary said it was important. Sir Basil granted him an audience of five minutes and told Vicary to come upstairs straightaway.
"I've drafted this memorandum to General Eisenhower, General Betts, and the prime minister," Vicary said, when he finished briefing Boothby on Harry's discoveries that day. He handed it to Boothby, who remained standing, feet slightly apart as if for balance. He was in a hurry to leave for the country. His secretary had packed a secure briefcase of weekend reading material and a small leather grip of personal items. An overcoat hung over his shoulders, sleeves dangling at his sides. "To keep quiet about this any longer would be a dereliction of duty in my opinion, Sir Basil."
Boothby was still reading; Vicary knew this because his lips were moving. He was squinting so hard his eyes had vanished into his lush brows. Sir Basil liked to pretend he still had perfect vision and refused to wear his reading glasses in front of the staff.
"I thought we'd discussed this once already, Alfred," Boothby said, waving the sheet of paper through the air. A problem, once dealt with, should never resurface--it was one of Sir Basil's many personal and professional maxims. He was apt to grow agitated when subordinates raised matters already dispensed with. Careful deliberation and second-guessing were the province of weaker minds. Sir Basil valued quick decision making over all else. Vicary glanced at Sir Basil's desk. It was clean, polished, and absolutely void of paper or files, a monument to Boothby's management style.
"We
have
discussed this once already, Sir Basil," Vicary said patiently, "but the situation has changed. It appears they've managed to insert an agent into the country and that agent has met with an agent in place. It appears that their operation--whatever it may be--is now under way. To sit on this information instead of passing it on is to court disaster."
have
discussed this once already, Sir Basil," Vicary said patiently, "but the situation has changed. It appears they've managed to insert an agent into the country and that agent has met with an agent in place. It appears that their operation--whatever it may be--is now under way. To sit on this information instead of passing it on is to court disaster."
"Nonsense," Boothby snapped.
"Why is it nonsense?"
"Because this department is not going to officially inform the Americans and the prime minister that it is incapable of performing its job. That it is incapable of controlling the threat posed to the invasion preparations by German spies."
"That's not a valid reason for concealing this information."
"It is a valid reason, Alfred, if I say it is a valid reason."
Conversations with Boothby often assumed the characteristics of a cat chasing its own tail: shallow contradiction, bluff and diversion, point-scoring contests. Vicary bunched his hands judicially beneath his chin and pretended to study the pattern of Boothby's costly rug. The room was silent except for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath Sir Basil's muscular bulk.
"Are you prepared to forward my memorandum to the director-general?" Vicary asked. His tone of voice was as unthreatening as possible.
"Absolutely not."
"Then I'm prepared to go directly to the DG myself."
Boothby bent his body and put his face close to Vicary's. Vicary, seated in Boothby's deep couch, could smell gin and cigarettes on his breath.
"And I'm prepared to squash you, Alfred."
"Sir Basil--"
"Let me remind you how the system works. You report to me, and I report to the director-general. You have reported to me, and I have determined it would be inappropriate to forward this matter to the DG at this time."
"There is one other option."
Boothby's head snapped back as if he had been punched. He quickly regained his composure, setting his jaw in an angry scowl. "I don't report to the prime minister, nor do I serve at his pleasure. But if you go around the department and speak directly to Churchill, I'll have you brought up before an internal review committee. By the time the committee is finished with you, they'll need dental records to identify the body."
"That's completely unfair."
"Is it? Since you've taken charge of this case it's been one disaster after another. My God, Alfred--a few more German spies running loose in this country and they could form a rugby club."
Vicary refused to be baited. "If you're not going to present my report to the director-general, I want the official record of this affair to reflect the fact that I made the suggestion at this time and you turned it down."
The corners of Boothby's mouth lifted into a terse smile. Protecting one's flank was something he understood and appreciated. "Already thinking of your place in history, are you, Alfred?"
"You're a complete bastard, Sir Basil. And an incompetent one as well."
"You're addressing a senior officer, Major Vicary!"
"Believe me, I haven't missed the irony."
Boothby snatched up the briefcase and his leather grip, then looked at Vicary and said, "You have a great deal to learn."
"I suppose I could learn it from you."
"And what in God's name is that supposed to mean?"
Vicary got to his feet. "It means you should start thinking more about the security of this country and less about your personal advancement through Whitehall."
Boothby smiled easily, as if he were trying to seduce a younger woman. "But, my dear Alfred," he said, "I've always considered the two to be completely intertwined."
21
EAST LONDON
Catherine Blake had a stiletto hidden in her handbag the following evening as she hurried along the pavement toward the Popes' warehouse. She had demanded a meeting alone with Vernon Pope, and, as she approached the warehouse, she saw no sign of Pope's men. She stopped at the gate and turned the latch. It was unlocked, just as Pope said it would be. She pulled it open and stepped inside.
The warehouse was a place of shadows, the only illumination from a light hanging at one end of the room. Catherine walked toward the light and found the freight lift. She stepped inside, pulled the gate closed, and pressed the button. The lift groaned and shuddered upward toward Pope's office.
The lift emptied onto a small landing with a set of black double doors. Catherine knocked and heard Pope's voice on the other side tell her to enter. He was standing at a drinks trolley, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a pair of glasses in the other. He held one out toward Catherine as she walked across the floor.
"No, thank you," she said. "I'm just staying for a minute."
"I insist," he said. "Things got a little tense the last time we were together. I want to make it up to you."
"Is that why you had me followed?" she said, accepting the wine.
"I have everyone followed, darling. That's how I stay in business. My boys are good at it, as you'll see when you read this." He held out an envelope toward Catherine, then pulled it away as her hand reached for it. "That's why I was so surprised when you managed to give Dicky the slip. That was smooth--ducking into the underground and then jumping on a bus."
"I changed my mind." She drank some of the champagne. It was ice cold and excellent. Pope held out the envelope again and this time allowed Catherine to take it. She set down her glass and opened it.
It was exactly what she needed, a minute-by-minute account of Peter Jordan's movements around London: where he worked, the hours he kept, the places he did his eating and drinking, even the name of a friend.
While she finished reading, Pope took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured another glass for himself. Catherine reached inside her handbag, took out the money, and dropped it on the table. "Here's the rest," she said. "I think that concludes our business. Thank you very much."
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