Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (38 page)
Catherine felt relief washing over her and at the same time an amazing sense of power and triumph. Finally, after months of training and years of waiting, she had done something. She realized suddenly that she liked spying--the satisfaction of meticulously planning and executing an operation, the childlike pleasure of knowing a secret, learning something that someone doesn't want you to know. Vogel had been right all alone, of course. She was perfect for it--in every way.
She opened the door and went back into the bedroom.
Peter Jordan was sitting up in bed in the moonlight.
"Where have you been? I was worried about you."
"I was dying of thirst." She couldn't believe the calm, collected voice was really hers.
"I hope you brought me some too," he said.
Oh, thank God.
She could breathe again.
She could breathe again.
"Of course I did."
She handed him the glass of water, and he drank it.
Catherine asked, "What time is it?"
"Five o'clock. I have to be up in an hour for an eight o'clock meeting."
She kissed him. "So we have one hour left."
"Catherine, I couldn't possibly--"
"Oh, I bet you could."
She let the silk gown fall from her shoulders and drew his face to her breasts.
Catherine Blake, later that morning, strode along the Chelsea Embankment as a light, bitterly cold rain drifted across the river. During her preparation Vogel had provided her with a sequence of twenty different rendezvous, each in a different location in central London, each at a slightly different time. He had forced her to commit them to memory, and she assumed he had done the same thing with Horst Neumann before sending him into England. Under the rules it was Catherine who would decide whether the meeting would take place. If she saw anything she didn't like--a suspicious face, men in a parked car--she could call it off and they would try again at the next location on the list at the specified time.
Catherine saw nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced at her wristwatch: two minutes early. She continued walking and, inevitably, thought about what had happened last night. She worried she had taken things with Jordan too far, too fast. She hoped he hadn't been shocked by the things she had done to his body or by the things she had asked him to do to hers. Perhaps a middle-class Englishwoman wouldn't have behaved like that.
Too late for second thoughts now, Catherine.
Too late for second thoughts now, Catherine.
The morning had been like being in a dream. It felt as if she had been magically turned into someone else and dropped into their world. She dressed and made coffee while Jordan shaved and showered; the placid domestic scene felt bizarre to her. She felt a stab of fear when he unlocked the study door and went inside.
Did I leave anything out of place? Does he realize I was in there last night?
They had shared a taxi. During the short ride to Grosvenor Square she was struck by another thought: What if he doesn't want to see me again? It had never occurred to her before that moment. All of it would have been for nothing unless he truly cared for her. Her concerns had been groundless. As the taxi arrived at Grosvenor Square he asked her to have dinner with him that evening at an Italian restaurant in Charlotte Street.
Did I leave anything out of place? Does he realize I was in there last night?
They had shared a taxi. During the short ride to Grosvenor Square she was struck by another thought: What if he doesn't want to see me again? It had never occurred to her before that moment. All of it would have been for nothing unless he truly cared for her. Her concerns had been groundless. As the taxi arrived at Grosvenor Square he asked her to have dinner with him that evening at an Italian restaurant in Charlotte Street.
Catherine turned around and retraced her steps along the Embankment. Neumann was there now, walking toward her, hands plunged into the pockets of his reefer coat, collar up against the rain, slouch hat pulled down close to his eyes. He had a good look for a field agent: small, anonymous, yet vaguely menacing. Put a suit on him and he could attend a Belgravia cocktail party. Dressed as he was now, he could walk the toughest docks in London and no one would dare look at him twice. She wondered if he had ever studied acting, like she had.
"You look like you could use a cup of coffee," he said. "There's a nice warm cafe not too far from here."
Neumann held out an arm to her. She took it and they strolled along the Embankment. It was very cold. She gave him the film and he carelessly dropped it into his pocket, as though it were spare change. Vogel had trained him well.
Catherine said, "You know where to deliver this, I assume."
"Cavendish Square. A man from the Portuguese embassy named Hernandez will pick it up at three o'clock this afternoon and place it in the diplomatic pouch. It will go to Lisbon tonight and be in Berlin in the morning."
"Very good."
"What is it, by the way?"
"His appointment book, some photographs of his study. Not much, but it's a start."
"Very impressive," Neumann said. "How did you get it?"
"I let him take me to dinner; then I let him take me to bed. I got up in the middle of the night and slipped into his study. The combination worked, by the way. I also saw the inside of his safe."
Neumann shook his head. "That's risky as hell. If he comes downstairs you're in trouble."
"I know. That's why I need these." She reached into her handbag and gave him the block of clay with the imprints of the keys. "Find someone to make copies of these and deliver them to my flat today. Tomorrow, when he goes to work, I'm going to go back inside his house and photograph everything in that study."
Neumann pocketed the block of clay.
"Right. Anything else?"
"Yes, from now on, no more conversations like this. We bump into each other, I give you the film, you walk away and deliver it to the Portuguese. If you have a message for me, write it down and give it to me. Understood?"
"Understood."
They stopped walking. "Well, you have a very busy day ahead of you, Mr. Porter." She kissed his cheek and said into his ear, "I risked my life for those things. Don't fuck it up now."
Then she turned and walked away down the Embankment.
The first problem confronting Horst Neumann that morning was finding someone to make copies of Peter Jordan's keys. No reputable shop in the West End would make a duplicate key based on an imprint. In fact they would probably call the Metropolitan Police and have him arrested. He needed to go to a neighborhood where he might find a shopkeeper willing to do the job for the right price. He walked along the Thames, crossed Battersea Bridge, and headed into South London.
It didn't take Neumann long to find what he was looking for. The shop's windows had been blown out by a bomb. Now they were boarded up with plywood. Neumann stepped inside. There were no customers, just an older man behind the counter wearing a heavy blue shirt and a grimy apron.
Neumann said, "You make keys, mate?"
The clerk inclined his head toward the grinder.
Neumann took the clay from his pocket. "You know how to make keys from something like this?"
"Yep, but it will cost you."
"How's ten shillings sound?"
The clerk smiled; he had about half his teeth. "Sounds like sweet music." He took the clay. "Be ready by tomorrow noon."
"I need them right now."
The clerk was smiling his horrid smile again. "Well, now, that's going to cost you another ten bob."
Neumann laid the money on the counter. "I'll wait here while you cut them, if you don't mind."
"Suit yourself."
In the afternoon the rain stopped. Neumann walked a great deal. When he wasn't walking he was jumping on and off buses and rushing in and out of the underground. He had only the vaguest memories of London from when he was a boy, and he actually enjoyed spending the day in the city. It was a relief from the boredom of Hampton Sands. Nothing to do there except run on the beach and read and help Sean in the meadows with the sheep. Leaving the hardware shop, he pocketed the duplicate keys and recrossed Battersea Bridge. He took Catherine's block of clay, crushed it so as to erase the imprints, and tossed it into the Thames. It broke the surface with a deep
bloop
and vanished into the swirling water.
bloop
and vanished into the swirling water.
He meandered through Chelsea and Kensington and finally into Earl's Court. He placed the keys in an envelope and the envelope through Catherine's letter box. Then he took his lunch at a window table of a crowded cafe. A woman two tables away made eyes at him throughout the meal, but he had brought a newspaper for protection and looked up only occasionally to smile at her. It was tempting; she was attractive enough and it might be an enjoyable way to kill the rest of the afternoon and get off the streets for a while. It was insecure, however. He paid his bill, winked at her, and walked out.
Fifteen minutes later he stopped at a phone box, picked up the receiver, and dialed a local number. It was answered by a man who spoke heavily accented English. Neumann politely asked for a Mr. Smythe; the fellow at the other end of the line protested a little too vehemently that there was no one named Smythe at this number. Then he violently rang off. Neumann smiled and returned the receiver to its cradle. The exchange was a crude code. The man was the Portuguese courier Carlos Hernandez. When Neumann called and asked for someone with a name beginning with an
S,
the courier was to go to Cavendish Square and collect the material.
S,
the courier was to go to Cavendish Square and collect the material.
He still had an hour to kill. He walked in Kensington, skirting Hyde Park, and arrived at Marble Arch. The clouds thickened and it started to rain--just a few cold, fat drops to begin with, then a steady downpour. He ducked into a bookshop in a small street off Portman Square. He browsed for a bit, dismissing an offer of assistance from the dark-haired girl standing atop a ladder stocking books on the top shelves. He selected a volume of T. S. Eliot and a new novel by Graham Greene called
The Ministry of Fear.
While he was paying, the girl professed love for Eliot and invited Neumann for coffee when she took her break at four o'clock. He declined but said he was frequently in the area and would come back. The girl smiled, placed the books in a brown paper bag, and said she would like that. Neumann walked out, accompanied by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the top of the door.
The Ministry of Fear.
While he was paying, the girl professed love for Eliot and invited Neumann for coffee when she took her break at four o'clock. He declined but said he was frequently in the area and would come back. The girl smiled, placed the books in a brown paper bag, and said she would like that. Neumann walked out, accompanied by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the top of the door.
He arrived in Cavendish Square. The rain diminished to a chilly drizzle. It was too cold for him to wait on a bench in the square, so he walked around it several times, never taking his eye from the doorway on the southwest corner.
After twenty minutes of this, the fat man arrived.
He wore a gray suit, gray overcoat, and bowler hat and carried himself as though he were about to rob a bank. He shoved his key in the door as though he were entering enemy territory and went inside. When the door closed Neumann crossed the square, removed the film from his jacket pocket, and dropped it through the mail slot. On the other side of the door he heard the fat man grunting as he stooped to pick it up. Neumann walked away and continued his tour of the square, again never taking his eyes from the house. The Portuguese diplomat emerged five minutes later, found a taxi after a moment, and was gone.
Neumann looked at his wristwatch. More than an hour before his train. He thought about going back to the bookshop for the girl. The idea of coffee and intelligent conversation appealed to him. But even innocent discourse was a potential minefield. Speaking the language and understanding the culture were two different things. He might make a stupid remark and she might become suspicious. It was not worth the risk.
He left Cavendish Square, books beneath his arm, and took the underground east to Liverpool Street, where he boarded the late-afternoon train for Hunstanton.
PART THREE
31
BERLIN: FEBRUARY 1944
"It's called Operation Mulberry," Admiral Canaris began, "and as of now we don't have the slightest idea what it's all about."
A smile flickered across Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg's lips and evaporated as quickly as summer rain. When the two men had ridden together earlier that morning in the Tiergarten, Canaris had not told Schellenberg the news. Catching a glimpse of Schellenberg's reaction now, Canaris felt no guilt about keeping it from the young general. Their horseback meetings had one unspoken ground rule: each man was expected to use them for his own advantage. Canaris decided to share or withhold information based on a simple formula: did it help his cause? Outright lying was frowned upon. Lying led to reprisals, and reprisals spoiled the affable atmosphere of the rides.
"A few days ago, the Luftwaffe shot these surveillance photographs." Canaris laid two enlargements on the low, ornate coffee table around which they were seated. "This is Selsey Bill in the south of England. We are almost certain these work sites are connected to the project." Canaris used a silver pen as a pointer. "Obviously, something very large is being hastily constructed at these sites. There are huge stockpiles of cement and steel girding. In this photograph a scaffolding is visible."
"Impressive, Admiral Canaris," Hitler said. "What else do you know?"
"We know that several topflight British and American engineers are working on the project. We also know that General Eisenhower is intimately involved. Unfortunately, we are missing one very important piece of the puzzle--the purpose of the giant concrete structures." Canaris paused for a moment. "Find that missing piece, and we may very well solve the puzzle of the Allied invasion."
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