Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (6 page)
Vicary stood at the back of the lecture hall that night, watching the spectacle. He too had been observing Germany carefully since Hitler's rise to power. He had quietly predicted to his colleagues that England and Germany would soon be at war, perhaps before the end of the decade. No one listened. Many people thought Hitler was a fine counterbalance to the Soviet Union and should be supported. Vicary thought that utter nonsense. Like the rest of the country he considered Churchill a bit of an adventurer, a bit too bellicose. But when it came to the Nazis, Vicary believed Churchill was dead on target.
Returning home, Vicary sat at his desk and jotted him a one-sentence note:
I attended your lecture in London and agree with every word you uttered.
Five days later a note from Churchill arrived at Vicary's home:
My God, I am not alone after all. The great Vicary is at my side! Please do me the honor of coming to Chartwell for lunch this Sunday.
I attended your lecture in London and agree with every word you uttered.
Five days later a note from Churchill arrived at Vicary's home:
My God, I am not alone after all. The great Vicary is at my side! Please do me the honor of coming to Chartwell for lunch this Sunday.
Their first meeting was a success. Vicary was immediately absorbed into the ring of academics, journalists, civil servants, and military officers who would give Churchill advice and intelligence on Germany for the rest of the decade. Winston forced Vicary to listen while he paced the ancient wooden floor of his library and explained his theories about German intentions. Sometimes Vicary disagreed, forcing Churchill to clarify his positions. Sometimes Churchill lost his temper and refused to back down. Vicary would hold his ground. Their friendship was cemented in this manner.
Now, walking through the gathering dusk, Vicary thought of Churchill's summons to Chartwell. It certainly wasn't just to have a friendly chat.
Vicary turned onto a street lined with white Georgian terraces, painted rose by the last minutes of the spring twilight. He walked slowly, as if lost, one hand clutching his leaden briefcase, the other rammed into his mackintosh pocket. An attractive woman, roughly his age, emerged from a doorway. A handsome man with a bored face followed her. Even from a distance--even with his dreadful eyesight--he could see it was Helen. He would recognize her anywhere: the erect carriage, the long neck, the disdainful walk, as if she were always about to step into something disagreeable. Vicary watched them climb into the back of the chauffeur-driven car. It drew away from the curb and headed in his direction.
Turn away, you damned fool! Don't look at her!
But he was incapable of heeding his own advice. As the car passed he turned his head and looked into the rear seat. She saw him--just for an instant--but it was long enough. Embarrassed, she looked quickly down. Vicary, through the rear window of the car, watched her turn and murmur something to her husband that made his head snap back with laughter.
Turn away, you damned fool! Don't look at her!
But he was incapable of heeding his own advice. As the car passed he turned his head and looked into the rear seat. She saw him--just for an instant--but it was long enough. Embarrassed, she looked quickly down. Vicary, through the rear window of the car, watched her turn and murmur something to her husband that made his head snap back with laughter.
Idiot! Bloody damned idiot!
Vicary started walking again. He looked up and watched the car vanish around a corner. He wondered where they were headed--off to another party, the theater maybe. Why can't I just let her go? It's been twenty-five years, for God's sake! And then he thought, And why is your heart beating like it was the first time you saw her face?
He walked as fast as he could until he grew tired and out of breath. He thought of anything that came into his mind--anything but her. He came to a playground and stood at the wrought-iron gate, staring through the bars at the children. They were overdressed for May, bumping around like tiny plump penguins. Any German spy lurking about would surely realize many Londoners had discounted the government's warning and kept their children with them in the city. Vicary, normally indifferent to children, stood at the gate and listened, mesmerized, thinking there was nothing quite so comforting as the sound of little ones at play.
Churchill's car was waiting for him at the station. It sped, top down, through the rolling green countryside of southeast England. The day was cool and breezy, and it seemed everything was in bloom. Vicary sat in back, one hand holding his coat closed, the other pressing his hat to his head. Wind blew over the open car like a gale over the prow of a ship. He debated whether he should ask the driver to stop and put up the top. Then the inevitable sneezing fit began--at first like sporadic sniper fire, then progressing into a full-fledged barrage. Vicary couldn't decide which hand to free to cover his mouth. He repeatedly pivoted his head and sneezed so the little puffs of moisture and germs were carried away by the wind.
The driver saw Vicary's gyrations in the mirror and became alarmed. "Would you like me to stop the car, Professor Vicary?" he asked, easing off the throttle.
The sneezing attack subsided and Vicary was actually able to enjoy the ride. He didn't care for the countryside as a rule. He was a Londoner. He liked the crowds and the noise and the traffic and tended to get disoriented in open spaces. He also hated the quiet of the nights. His mind wandered and he became convinced there were stalkers roaming in the darkness. But now he sat back in the car and marveled at England's natural beauty.
The car turned into the drive at Chartwell. Vicary's pulse quickened as he stepped from the car. As he approached the door, it opened and Churchill's man Inches stood there to greet him.
"Good morning, Professor Vicary. The prime minister has been awaiting your arrival most eagerly."
Vicary handed over his coat and his hat and stepped inside. About a dozen men and a couple of young girls were at work in the drawing room, some in uniform, some like Vicary in civilian clothes. They spoke in hushed, confessional tones, as though all the news was bad. A telephone rattled, then another. Each was answered after one ring.
"I hope you had a pleasant trip," Inches was saying.
"Marvelous," Vicary replied, lying politely.
"As usual, Mr. Churchill is running late this morning," Inches said. Then he added confidingly, "He sets an unattainable schedule, and we all spend the rest of the day trying to catch up with it."
"I understand, Inches. Where would you like me to wait?"
"Actually, the prime minister is quite eager to see you this morning. He asked that you be shown upstairs immediately upon your arrival."
"Upstairs?"
Inches knocked gently and pushed open the bathroom door. Churchill lay in his tub, a cigar in one hand, the day's second glass of whisky resting on a small table within easy reach. Inches announced Vicary and withdrew. "Vicary, my dear man," Churchill said. He put his mouth at the waterline and blew bubbles. "How good of you to come."
Vicary found the warm temperature of the bathroom oppressive. He also found it hard not to laugh at the enormous pink man splashing about in his bath like a child. He removed his tweed jacket and, reluctantly, sat down on the toilet.
"I wanted a word with you in private--that's why I've invited you here to my lair." Churchill pursed his lips. "Vicary, I must admit from the outset that I am angry with you."
Vicary stiffened.
Churchill opened his mouth to continue, then stopped himself. A perplexed, defeated look dawned over his face.
"Inches!" he bellowed.
Inches drifted in. "Yes, Mr. Churchill?"
"Inches, I believe my bathwater has dropped below one hundred four degrees. Would you check the thermometer?"
Rolling up his sleeve, Inches retrieved the thermometer. He studied it like an archaeologist examining an ancient bone fragment. "Ah, you're right, sir. The temperature of your bath has plummeted to one hundred two degrees. Shall I warm it?"
"Of course."
Inches opened the hot water tap and let it run for a moment. Churchill smiled as his bathwater attained its proper temperature. "Much better, Inches."
Churchill rolled onto his side. Water cascaded over the side of the tub, soaking the leg of Vicary's trousers.
"You were saying, Prime Minister?"
"Ah, yes, I was saying, Vicary, that I was angry with you. You never told me that in your younger days you were quite good at chess. Beat all comers at Cambridge, so I'm told."
Vicary, thoroughly confused, said, "I apologize, Prime Minister, but the subject of chess never arose during any of our conversations."
"Brilliant, ruthless, gambling--that's how people have described your play to me." Churchill paused. "You also served in the Intelligence Corps in the First War."
"I was only in the Motorcycle Unit. I was a courier, nothing more."
Churchill turned his gaze from Vicary and stared at the ceiling. "In 1250 B.C. the Lord told Moses to send agents to spy out the land of Canaan. The Lord was good enough to give Moses some advice on how to recruit his spies. Only the best and the brightest men were capable of such an important task, the Lord said, and Moses took his words to heart."
"This is true, Prime Minister," Vicary said. "But it is also true that the intelligence gathered by the spies of Moses was poorly utilized. As a result the Israelites spent another forty years wandering the desert."
Churchill smiled. "I should have learned long ago never to argue with you, Alfred. You have a nimble mind. I've always admired that."
"What is it you want me to do?"
"I want you to take a job in Military Intelligence."
"But, Prime Minister, I'm not qualified for that sort of--"
"Nobody over there knows what they're doing," Churchill said, cutting Vicary off. "Especially the professional officers."
"But what about my students? My research?"
"Your students will be in the service soon, fighting for their lives. And as for your research, it can wait." Churchill paused. "Do you know John Masterman and Christopher Cheney from Oxford?"
"Don't tell me they've been pulled in."
"Indeed--and don't expect to find a mathematician worth his salt at any of the universities," Churchill said. "They've all been snatched up and bundled off to Bletchley Park."
"What on earth are they doing there?"
"Trying to crack German ciphers."
Vicary made a brief show of thought. "I suppose I accept."
"Good." Churchill thumped his fist on the side of the tub. "You're to report first thing Monday to Brigadier Sir Basil Boothby. He is the head of the division to which you will be assigned. He is also the complete English ass. He'd thwart me if he could, but he's too stupid for that. Man could fuck up a steel ball."
"Sounds charming."
"He knows you and I are friends and therefore he will oppose you. Don't allow yourself to be bullied by him. Understood?"
"Yes, Prime Minister."
"I need someone I can trust inside that department. It's time to put the
intelligence
back in Military Intelligence. Besides, this will be good for you, Alfred. It's time you emerged from your dusty library and rejoined the living."
intelligence
back in Military Intelligence. Besides, this will be good for you, Alfred. It's time you emerged from your dusty library and rejoined the living."
Vicary was caught off guard by Churchill's sudden intimacy. He thought of the previous evening, of his walk home, of staring into Helen's passing car.
"Yes, Prime Minister, I believe it
is
time. Just what will I do for Military Intelligence?"
is
time. Just what will I do for Military Intelligence?"
But Churchill had vanished below the waterline.
4
RASTENBURG, GERMANY: JANUARY 1944
Rear Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris was a small, nervous man who spoke with a slight lisp and possessed a sarcastic wit on those rare occasions when he chose to display it. White-haired, with piercing blue eyes, he was seated in the back of a staff Mercedes as it rumbled from the Rastenburg airfield to Hitler's secret bunker nine miles away. Usually, Canaris shunned uniforms and martial trappings of any kind, preferring a dark business suit instead. But since he was about to meet with Adolf Hitler and the most senior military officers in Germany, he was wearing his Kriegsmarine uniform beneath his formal greatcoat.
Known as the Old Fox by friends and detractors alike, Canaris's detached, aloof personality suited him perfectly to the ruthless world of espionage. He cared more about his two dachshunds--sleeping now on the floor at his feet--than anyone except his wife, Erika, and his daughters. When work mandated overnight travel, he booked a separate room with double beds so the dogs could sleep in comfort. When it was necessary to leave them behind in Berlin, Canaris checked in with his aides constantly to make certain the animals had eaten and had proper bowel movements. Abwehr staff who dared to speak ill of the dogs faced the very real threat of having their careers destroyed if word of their treachery ever reached Canaris's ears.
Raised in a walled villa in the Dortmund suburb of Aplerbeck as a member of the German elite so detested by Adolf Hitler, Wilhelm Canaris was the son of a chimney baron and descendant of Italians who emigrated to Germany in the sixteenth century. He spoke the languages of Germany's friends as well as her enemies--Italian, Spanish, English, French, and Russian--and regularly presided over recitals of chamber music in the salon of his stately Berlin home. In 1933 he was serving as commander of a naval depot on the Baltic Sea at Swinemunde when Hitler unexpectedly chose him to head the Abwehr, the intelligence and counterespionage service. Hitler commanded his new spymaster to create a secret service on the British model--"an order, doing its work with passion"--and Canaris formally took control of the spy agency on New Year's Day 1934, his forty-seventh birthday.
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